Meditations on Absence

This, this here. This is a scribble, a thought, a word or two or twelve strung together. This is a sentence; this is a story. This is a dream with no beginning, a poem with no end. This is a boy, who sits facing a window, with rain-grey light in his face, watching mildly acidic water sliding down out of the sky. He’s alright; he does not sleep, but that’s alright. There may be something wrong with him, psychologically wrong, but that’s alright. He’s alright.

He used to joke a lot. He used to look, and smile, and occasionally say something witty. He was alright then, too. This is a face, those are lips, those are teeth, that is a smile. This is the past. He used to look at people, passing in the halls of his school or on the street of his city, and wonder if maybe this one is the one. Maybe that one? Maybe.

He used to joke, with a friend of his (maybe not a friend, but the friend?) that finding someone new was the only way to go. It wasn’t really a joke, because both of them absolutely did need someone new. Someone with a nice laugh who didn’t know all their jokes, didn’t know the routine. Hadn’t figured them out yet; someone to unravel them again.

This, this here. This is not TV. This is not a movie; please do not think you are watching a movie. This is real, this is a life.  THIS IS NOT A MOVIE.

This boy, he watched a movie with his family today. They paid eight dollars a person for the privilege to have their eyes and ears bombarded with sexy people selling lifestyles they can’t afford, then to have their emotions manipulated by characters that are too perfect. Even their flaws are really attractive traits. This boy usually can’t stand the movies. It makes him sick. Today, he cried during the previews for a love story. He never has done that before. They may be something wrong with him, but that’s alright.

This is a street, that is the rain, these are cars and those are clouds. These are the things that make up a day, make up a scene. Headlights reflecting dirty black on the streets, bare trees dripping onto people’s downturned heads. No one looks up on days like this one; it’s too tiring. Everyone in these gleaming photographs that line our storefronts, every one of these well-muscled boys or bright-haired girls, will one day be dead. Tiring, all of it.

These are the thoughts he is thinking, this boy at a window. Someone he loves is not present. Her absence is almost indecent in its noticability. It is like a wild, dirty man with weeks of gin soaked into his beard singing in a mall; no one looks, but everyone notices. It is not on, not right. This is her absence.

She is going somewhere else, for a while. In the perspective of the boy’s life, not a very long while, but long enough. In the perspective of history, not long at all. In the perspective of time, nonexistent. A blip, then gone. This is a week, then. This is time. Blip. He does not know how she is going. Driving, flying, walking. She is going. He does not know where she is, but she must be in transit. This is a door, that is a street, these are blocks and then miles and then borders that separate them. These are the things that stand between them, distinctions of distance and geography and ownership. Tiring, all of it. Someone he loves is hurtling through the world in some mechanical contraption that is outfitted with the latest in passenger safety and comfort features. He knows this because the movies were nice enough to tell him, to let him know. Or maybe it was the ads before; they are indistinguishable.

All of these rooms without her in them, they are godless places. There is nothing sanctified or good in them. This is a wall, these are windows. Outside, darkness is falling. It is far too early for it to be dark, far too early. Everything comes far too early this time of year: partings and meetings and due dates and holidays. A constant rush of occurance, punctuated with her absence. Tiring, all of it.

This is a boy, these are his thoughts. He has no idea what she is doing now. Laughing, possibly, probably. There is something holy in her laugh, he thinks. It comes far easier than his. He is doing the only thing he knows how to do. These are the steps that you take, procedures to be followed, when you have said “love”.

Do not forget, you are not watching TV. Do you hear me? You are not watching TV. This is real, this is life. Love is different from love which is different from “love”. This is real. Don’t get this wrong, this is not a movie. You are not watching TV.

This is a laugh, this is a touch, that is a kiss. These are the things he is missing. This is the only thing he knows how to do; he knows how to want. Everything else is artifice, but this, this he knows. There may be something wrong with that, something wrong with him. But that’s alright, he’s alright. All of this seems intolerable. All of a sudden, he’s in his room, breathing in and out of a paper bag. He’s lying down. There may, may be something wrong with him. Something psychologically wrong. But that’s alright.

This is an old woman. She is related to this boy, but cannot relate to him. She was married at age 19. This is the glass that is always in her hand, always with a paper towel around the bottom. This is the bottle that feeds that glass, labeled proudly, “Irish Whiskey”. She is dignified in the way that a woman who has lost her husband to cancer and lost her beauty to age and cigarettes is dignified. She is never without that glass; he is never without this scarf. These are the things we console ourselves with. Tastes and smells. That’s alright.

The boy is feeling that grimy feeling that you get, on a Saturday afternoon, with obligations later in the evening and a particularly noticeable absence. The griminess is not related at all to how he bathed today or any exertions he has made. He is wishing that he could throw up, one giant heave that would cleanse every part of his body. He feels everything he has eaten today, the weight of it measured up against the gaping absence. This is something that bothers him; he has no idea what that beautiful girl is doing. He thinks she is beautiful, but he has not told her. He doesn’t think so well around her. He doesn’t breathe so well either, but that’s alright. Right now, people are watching movies and touching and eating and laughing and he has no idea what that beautiful girl is doing.

She is the type of girl who can turn perfectly good furniture into wastes of wood, simply by not sitting in it. This is what he thinks.

She has unraveled him perhaps too quickly, he thinks. The dark outside has taken his face; he has turned on lights. Warmth but not warmth is bathing his walls, his bed. This girl has gotten right to the center of him, faster than he could have thought possible. How this happened, he could not say. But he is unraveling; the evidence of this is in his sleep cycle, in the way he eats, and how he breathes. Shuddering, pausing, binging, staring. Nothing is fluid, nothing comes easily anymore. There is hunger but no appetite. Fatigue but no sleepiness.

You are remembering, aren’t you, that this is not TV? Do not be fooled. These characters are real, they will not walk offscreen and into penthouse suites dripping with pleasure. This is not a movie, this is NOT TV.

When he rubs his eyes, or touches his neck, she is there. The ghost of her is in his hands, inside his fingertips. That’s alright.

She is coming back, sometime. There is no forever here, because this is not TV. This is not the movies, and there is no forever, no mystery disappearances or any such plot techniques. In reality, only death is forever, and that is not even a possibility, he reassures himself. So she is coming back, sometime. And he will be waiting. This is a street, those are shoes, these are leaves, that is a sidewalk, that is a doorbell, that is a door. He is waiting for someone to answer.