The Separation of Siamese Twins
Colliding with David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers randomly on television (television, the recreational medium) is rather like catching your fingers into the top end of a meat grinder: the next thing you know you're right into it, and ground to a bloody pulp.
I am supposed to be at Turtle's best friend's wedding right now. I'm not; because I slept in, missed the bus I was supposed to take, in order to meet my up with my mother, get in her car, and drive to Muskoka. I had taken egress from the city and was halfway to Barrie in a cab (and halfway through a negotiated $110 cab ride), after pulling all of my shit together in less than 15 minutes, when my flustered and frustrated mother determined that it was cutting it too close, and that she wouldn't be able to wait for me in Barrie and still be able to make it to the ceremony. I promised to take a bus, meet her in Bracebridge after the wedding proper, get in the car, and still make it to the reception. I closed my cellphone, turned the cab driver around, and came back to the city.
Which still cost me $90.
And returned to the door of my apartment right in the middle of my landlord showing it to prospective tenants. Which sort of complicated things further.
When I finally gained access to my home, stomach in knots, it was already late again, and I was unsure of how to proceed. So paced a little, got angry with myself, struggled with a few stops and starts;
and collapsed.
I'm a little exhausted. I was not going to make it. That was apparent, but I didn't want to make the call. Literally or figuratively. The stress of fucking up so thoroughly takes a lot out of you, and it's hard to admit that you've really done as bad as you know (in your heart of beating hearts) that you have.
In retrospect, once I had started going North, I should have just kept going. The backtrack is what killed me. That and the lack of resources. I spent almost all of my money on the cab (as most of my recent paycheck went to the outfit I was going to wear). I had visions of me standing in Bracebridge with my bag, new shoes shining a brilliant white, waiting for indeterminate hours while things got sorted out, with no ability to help or effect change.
Any activity that requires relocation in Canada turns you into a freeloader if you don't have a car. Or a license to drive a car. Or a credit card to rent a car to drive. And feeling bad for imposing in the first place makes everything that much harder.
I really wanted to go to the wedding. Badly. I've been looking forward to it for months.
My mother is genuinely upset with me. For good reason. I imagine my sister is as well.
A few years ago I struggled with intention and action, and the mystery of discrepancy between the two; and the inability to diagnose what creates that discrepancy, even as you watch yourself fail to achieve your goals, or respond appropriately to situations and change. I came to the conclusion that intention and action are twins, conjoined, and that in the interest of some sort of cosmic balance that they can never be exactly the same. Some sort of contrast must be maintained to keep the worlds internal and external separate, the force of difference between the two drive you forward.
I lay down to an anguished, fitful nap after the final phone conversation with my mother. When I woke up, I sat down on the couch with a two liter bottle of Coca-Cola, intending to sugar and caffinate my disappointment with myself into submission. I turned on the television, to one of the five channels that are transmitted without cable, and was bathed in the eerie blue glow of Jeremy Irons, twined. Dead ringers. Dead Ringers.
Oh, dear. As if I wasn't in the best of places to start with.
Cronenberg is one of my favorite directors. I couldn't just not watch... as the negative space between what was intended and what became went very, very wrong; in a dark, lonely, desperate place.
When Eng woke up and saw that Chang was dead... Eng died of shock.
At times the deficiency in attempting to make real what is projected, what is drempt of and meant ("I did mean to"), is incredibly pronounced. At such times it becomes apparent that things have to change. Something is out of whack. Here's my red flag, waving, snapping in the wind.
Things need to get into synch.
Something radical is definitely required.
I don't think my life can survive a complete separation of action and intention.
They can't be allowed to be that far apart.
...
If one wanted to point out the irony of the situation: my mother is famous for this sort of debacle. She is constantly beset with complications and convoluted dilemmas which plague her ability to get from A to B in reasonable time. Today she was running on time.
I fear that as I get older that I am becoming more and more like her.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I fear that being sorry doesn't really cut it.
I am supposed to be at Turtle's best friend's wedding right now. I'm not; because I slept in, missed the bus I was supposed to take, in order to meet my up with my mother, get in her car, and drive to Muskoka. I had taken egress from the city and was halfway to Barrie in a cab (and halfway through a negotiated $110 cab ride), after pulling all of my shit together in less than 15 minutes, when my flustered and frustrated mother determined that it was cutting it too close, and that she wouldn't be able to wait for me in Barrie and still be able to make it to the ceremony. I promised to take a bus, meet her in Bracebridge after the wedding proper, get in the car, and still make it to the reception. I closed my cellphone, turned the cab driver around, and came back to the city.
Which still cost me $90.
And returned to the door of my apartment right in the middle of my landlord showing it to prospective tenants. Which sort of complicated things further.
When I finally gained access to my home, stomach in knots, it was already late again, and I was unsure of how to proceed. So paced a little, got angry with myself, struggled with a few stops and starts;
and collapsed.
I'm a little exhausted. I was not going to make it. That was apparent, but I didn't want to make the call. Literally or figuratively. The stress of fucking up so thoroughly takes a lot out of you, and it's hard to admit that you've really done as bad as you know (in your heart of beating hearts) that you have.
In retrospect, once I had started going North, I should have just kept going. The backtrack is what killed me. That and the lack of resources. I spent almost all of my money on the cab (as most of my recent paycheck went to the outfit I was going to wear). I had visions of me standing in Bracebridge with my bag, new shoes shining a brilliant white, waiting for indeterminate hours while things got sorted out, with no ability to help or effect change.
Any activity that requires relocation in Canada turns you into a freeloader if you don't have a car. Or a license to drive a car. Or a credit card to rent a car to drive. And feeling bad for imposing in the first place makes everything that much harder.
I really wanted to go to the wedding. Badly. I've been looking forward to it for months.
My mother is genuinely upset with me. For good reason. I imagine my sister is as well.
A few years ago I struggled with intention and action, and the mystery of discrepancy between the two; and the inability to diagnose what creates that discrepancy, even as you watch yourself fail to achieve your goals, or respond appropriately to situations and change. I came to the conclusion that intention and action are twins, conjoined, and that in the interest of some sort of cosmic balance that they can never be exactly the same. Some sort of contrast must be maintained to keep the worlds internal and external separate, the force of difference between the two drive you forward.
I lay down to an anguished, fitful nap after the final phone conversation with my mother. When I woke up, I sat down on the couch with a two liter bottle of Coca-Cola, intending to sugar and caffinate my disappointment with myself into submission. I turned on the television, to one of the five channels that are transmitted without cable, and was bathed in the eerie blue glow of Jeremy Irons, twined. Dead ringers. Dead Ringers.
Oh, dear. As if I wasn't in the best of places to start with.
Cronenberg is one of my favorite directors. I couldn't just not watch... as the negative space between what was intended and what became went very, very wrong; in a dark, lonely, desperate place.
When Eng woke up and saw that Chang was dead... Eng died of shock.
At times the deficiency in attempting to make real what is projected, what is drempt of and meant ("I did mean to"), is incredibly pronounced. At such times it becomes apparent that things have to change. Something is out of whack. Here's my red flag, waving, snapping in the wind.
Things need to get into synch.
Something radical is definitely required.
I don't think my life can survive a complete separation of action and intention.
They can't be allowed to be that far apart.
...
If one wanted to point out the irony of the situation: my mother is famous for this sort of debacle. She is constantly beset with complications and convoluted dilemmas which plague her ability to get from A to B in reasonable time. Today she was running on time.
I fear that as I get older that I am becoming more and more like her.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I fear that being sorry doesn't really cut it.
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-M