Tea 3

You are involved.
But this game has nothing to do with you, Isaac.
And that is why it is a cruel one.
You really are included and excluded.
You are a field, a board of points upon which we (I) play.

~~

And he is wondering where that angel is with that knife.
And he is feeling a sharp angle at the back of his neck.
And he is wondering why he is suddenly wondering--
What is my name? What is my name? Abraham, Isaac, Adam, Le--no, no no not that. I am one of the others. But which? God, when did it get so hard to remember? I must be getting old. Or maybe I'm too young. Where is my face? I must see my face--then I will know. Yes, then I will remember; then I will be able to see myself and the angel and my son and my father and the knife and--
what his name is.


~~
There is no such thing as sex.
That is to say, this thing that we fear and love and make look mad--it is not at all the five minute toss in the bag that is actuality.
The thing that is all these things has nothing to do with sex--unless one so chooses; it is everything, and so it can be anything. It can be wine or chairs or sound or sex. Sex is not dangerous; this thing that can be(come) sex is.

~~

This...this is better and worse. This is safer and more dangerous than what that other fool does by his own rules. He, he is arrogant--he thinks his rules are better, just like that other him. But I believe this one--I think his rules really are better. He does not lie; it is not part of his game. So I like this boy better. And to the already established, he has added a rule I secretly love: the rule of regret. It is a human rule. It is the rule of time. He knows he will make mistakes, even by his own rules, and so he makes this provision. He will regret. And in return, time will love him--time will forget. He will hurt and ache and spin himself green but time will let him play again. It is not a restart--things do not disappear; they are compiled. Cached. Collected. And a year from now, if he happens to remember, he will still regret. And time, again, will forgive, and this will go on until he cannot remember and time cannot forgive a wrinkle that has been smoothed.
I like this boy's game. Even if he doesn't win. The other one wins--thinks he wins. But he is like some rambling monster, on and on, his thoughts sharp and bent like a piece of scrap metal.
This boy, poor boy, sweet boy--what's his name? Don't know his name--he is always dying. Regretting. Making wry smiles and cursing. And there is a moment of silence, of stillness, between one motion and the next, between one life and the next, between one move and the next--

"that's wizard's chess."

and it is in this moment that I hear him breathing.
Hard and uneven, like he's hit the ground hard.
Did I push him? Did I put him there, bent over with something sharp at the back of my neck--I don't think I should go any further, now. Not until I remember my name.

~~

I sent a message last night, and got one back this morning. It was nothing of significance. But it did make me happy. And I want to share it and show it off, because it is such a perfect crystallization of a smiling moment. But I cannot, because you will see it, read it, maybe smile, maybe not, and then be done with it; and I will know, because these are the things a moth knows like the dust on its wings. This is one of those things that is valuable through silence. This is something I will hide in a book--and then, if it is found, it is found.