9.27.19
We are sitting here in a kitchen that is neither ours nor theirs, and you are wearing your seared-steak greased tank top. Of course I went ahead and put on mine, too (grease withstanding.) Somehow it appears that no other persons are here; this kitchen is ours tonight –– Rivers make me cry and noisy places make me spill water in them. –– What is apparent is that we are now cultivating cognitive comforts unique to us alone. We are collaborative cartographers tasked with negotiating the joint home which presently anchors, affords, our whimsical affairs. You speak of what home is; yankees are essentially homeless and I agree. Home is a matter of aspatial comforts that easily replicate across turbulent space-time.
Cohabitative pairbonding entails building such a metaphysical home for not just two individuals, but for the sum greater than their parts. This first requires a fluency in a language that our past and present experiences provide the individual symbols for: His Apple, Our Michigan Friend, Lime squeezed into Muscadine Wine. And then what next? A muscle memory of rituals for deploying this language with a robust ease: providing a narrative completeness to one another(, gifting, actually. This is a matter of non entitlement.) Mutual care for the predestined obstacle course of struggles that our individual Freudian Traumas have inflicted, joint sharpening and training to set ourselves up for success against the quests and arcs we must break free from only by embarking on a dutiful procession through them.
Of course these quests turn and fold in on themselves, as with the tides of time themselves. The human lifespan affords only a short amalgamation of these decade long short stories, which somehow thread into each other. Fortunate are those whose short stories speak to one another in some ineffable way even the structure of literary narrative itself cannot sustain or illuminate: a totalizing narrative, the novel in its most successful manifestation, a transcendence that waxes the divinity of spiritual resolve, satisfaction, and meaning.
So I wonder what clues co-orbital ritual comforts of improvisational tea-brewing, existential shitposting, degenerate cornbread baking, vaping and pacing with ventilated shoulder blades, provides for the answer to the question: how does primal, psycho-sexual coupling, mating, and cohabitation, fold into these narrative tides? How do pairbond inhabitants keep their orbital eclipsing of each other from collapsing in on itself, the same way the ineffable electron resists nuclear collapse, and instead becomes a fire that survives into the morning after a long and dark night? A fire that fuels the next, propelling one another, again and again, to the rebirth of another day, week, decade, or narrative arc?