Tuesday, March 13, 2007

"this desire had been satisfied"



Chapter 10 of Section 2 ends with Anna Karenina's husband recognizing in the tone of Anna's voice that she is lost to him, that her attention is elsewhere, that it is with Vronsky, and he can tell by the falseness in her voice in trying to ask her about the subject. There are two lines of ellipses following this chapter, two very pregnant lines of ellipses that hint at so many things, namely the consummation of Anna's affair, which happens wordless in those lines of dots, and then Chapter 11 picks up in that post-coital moment between Anna and her affair, Vronsky, concluding the first sentence of that chapter with: "this desire had been satisfied."

Those two lines, those lines of dots, two short lines in an 800 page book, struck me as so terribly beautiful, so fraught with meaning upon meaning. Obviously, there are the perhaps either tactful reasons or the ones of bowing to censorship standards that could be the reasons for the dots. But were that the case, the dots wouldn't even be necessary; there simply could be the break from one chapter to the next. The dots though explicitly call attention to the absence of something there, and it could be an artful way of calling attention to the lack of sexual depictions, or the dots could also represent the silence between the two, Anna and husband, the distance being created by Anna's refusal to be sincere with her husband.

Whichever the case, probably the both of them (and many other things actually), the dots are strikingly dramatic for a man, Tolstoy, who seems like he was never short for words to say. The dots, perhaps a white flag to the literary gods that not everything can be captured in words, that some experiences, the romantic and sexual ones in particular, those feelings of ecstasy, are always just a bit beyond the grasp of the person trying to put the thing into words, that perhaps not everything should be transcribed, that there is something not only tactful about not doing so, but that also by not talking about certain experiences the experience and the thing itself isn't diluted or sidelined by a failing attempt (and it is always a failing attempt) to recapture the thing, to put something beyond words into them - thus, these two lines of dots.

Knowing this, admitting this thing, you might think that in this instance, I should or would do the same and not try to tell about this experience I had yesterday, but instead just put two lines of ellipses down here and leave it to your imagination. But I am not that person and I have never been. I have always gotten too much pleasure from trying to record the thing, to try to get at the things that this life offers me, its pleasures and slights, and to not only try to come to a fuller understanding of the sources of these emotions, tracing them back, but tracing them from one to the next also, looking for patterns and the lack of them, those instances of beauty in what I might otherwise consider non-instances of the thing, to look a second time, to look closer, and realize things I might not have seen the first time I watched the movie.

But get to the point, you are saying (or at least I am, as I do have to go an interview in a short period of time), get to the thing you are building up toward and spare us these justifications and these attempts to try to place your tawdry life into a more meaningful framework. And okay, I say, okay, okay, I won't dispute that line of reasoning, and will instead just get to it, will say that yesterday in the afternoon, I went over to a boy's house in Greenpoint and finally, finally got fucked in the ass. There are your two lines of dots.

This was another Internet sex date, this one with another attractive peer of mine. I rode the G up to his house, listening to Prince and feeling amazing. The plan was not to have my cherry popped; there was no discussed plan. I got to his house and he was all smiles, this really cute toothy smile, and there was the briefest of hellos before making out. We exchanged blowjobs and made out a lot in his bed and he asked me if he could fuck me, and because it needed to happen at some point and there would seem to be few better times than with a really attractive stranger with Peter Bjorn & John being played on his stereo and with the sun of a beautiful day shining through his open window on to his bed, it did.

And there was a brief second of nervousness and of thinking that I couldn’t do it as he was entering me, but I squashed that fear and looked at his body over me and smiled. Obviously there is a reason that so many people like to get fucked, and now I understand it. Such a feeling, I am not sure I have ever known, and, man, what a feeling. And that is the thing I would want to get at, those particular senses I experienced, the insane pleasure that was vibrating through me and locate where exactly those points of pleasure were, and what it was that was being evoked, how it felt, to try to copy it here, but it can’t be done. I could do better to recall it in my bed now, will do so before I go to this interview, and will write the whole thing better then, will write it wordless with my hands on my own body, recalling the thing outside this thing, these parameters of language.
.....................

.....................

No comments:

Post a Comment