I mentioned in a post a few weeks ago my intrinsic desire to question everything…to know…to understand. With every encounter…with every conversation…with every word, i attempt to fit each item, each grain of salt into my world, into my psyche, to see if is a perfect match, or with some slight or even drastic maneuvering, it can be a compliment.
I cannot fathom the idea of mental atrophy or life stagnancy. These protonic moods and electronic thoughts are constantly in flux, though their nucleus will remain intact, otherwise, well, you understand, things go kablooey.
Thoughts on relationships, on marriage, on mono- versus polyamorous are no different. I’m a pretty catholic person when it comes to most topics. However, depending on the subject, my initial reaction may not be as tempered as i’d like—the claws, though unsheathed unconsciously, are used to strike out.
At the genesis of this writing (some time in February, you know, the month saved for lovers and Black folks’ history), i had been toying with more interest than usual the idea of human nature and my own views on what is involved in a healthy, long-lasting, well, maybe memorable would be better(?), relationship.
What’s at stake? Are individual needs more important than the couple as a whole? The proverbial gestalt, the sum of each parts greater than spiel.
I don’t know.
All i do know is that each pairing is unique. The two may look similar, but like the comic sans of the ‘Net (QR codes for the uninitiated), each item compared has its own identity, some driving force for existence—or for the pessimistic, some devastating trait counting down implosion (a modern day hamartia).
If my life is looked at as a baseball game, my current offensive output is, well, offensive: i’ve a shiny 0 for 3 goose egg in relationships, more distinctly, those against the living legend pitcher wearing Infinity, Long Distance. Though, i must point out that one of those at-bats was during my first year in college.
No matter how many times i’ve attempted to avoid going up against the imposing lefty, i find myself back up to the plate staring at my doom 90 feet away, anxious yet calm, pretty much how i approach everything in life. It’s probably some cosmic stubbornness—if i fail at something, i will continue at it until i’ve at least managed some type of hit, laying down a bunt will suffice: a moving of the runner(s).
When it comes to opening up, why are we an oyster shell?—teasing and possibly full-out showing our pearls during the initial meeting, maybe even throughout the outset of the honeymoon period, yet soon after—and it happens without fanfare—we become hesitant, paralyzed with a fear, a fear that the other may find out something they don’t like.
It’s remarkable, actually, because in the beginning that’s what we want, or say we want: tell me all, let me be able to deal with it, to digest it and we can move on from there—together.
And it works.
We unveil our deepest darkest alcoves of secrets and the other person is cool with it, reacts differently than we nightmarishly dreamed—digging deep vulnerable-heart trenches, a foxhole the Vietcong and our own vets would’ve been proud of. Yet, with that sturdy base, soon our own termites of doubt and hesitancy destroy the foundation of the house built.
It’s remarkable and foolish when thought about: went headstrong and willing into this cavern of deeper understanding, a knowing of each other, something substantial, allowed it to set in (like a cake or, yes, a house again) yet for some reason, it doesn’t seem sturdy now.
What’s changed? Nothing. Nothing but a fear of change. Don’t want to attempt knocking down the monolith, don’t want to sway the Jenga tower. We’ve become quite comfy in the level of openness. We enjoy knowing they’re “okay” with all we initially told, but don’t know what straw will cripple our camels. Probably nothing will. But we’ll allow the monsters under the bed and residing in the closet to sully our bedsheets, thrown out prematurely. Growth and understanding will curtail that, at least retard it, if not full-out prevent.
Moving the blinding light back on me, more Gemini meandering: the deepest-cut pairing i experienced was with a woman of West Indian ancestry; and the one i believed was my future wife, Black American. I’m thinking, and bare with me here as my thoughts jump to-and-fro, maybe the next logical and perfect choice would be someone with a combination of them both. There have been those with roots from New York, Philly, Virginia, Kansas; Vincy, Trini, and Jamaican women. Why not someone with familial history in Jerze or the Carolinas? (Where my fam is partially from!) And, since i love Rihanna, why not a Bajan? Hmmm. I’m on to something! For some reason this has me thinking of a skewed form of eugenics. I kid, I kid. Lol. Sorta. Very odd.
No, but seriously, we’re a species who fall in love with all types of superstitions, creation myths, retelling of history through fables, and all other sorts of ways to make sense of the world, so, why not heritage as an omen (shout out to my Alchemist readers)? It all sounds wonky. But I’m wit it, of course. So allow me this rationalization.
I’ve learned to trust my zaniness, the duality mixed with other personalities swimming within my brain. There’s got to be a reflection i recognize as one or a few of them in there. Is that an echo i hear?
Next on the agenda? Getting rid of the ancient Greek mythology and poems by Eliot out of my head whenever i write or think about reflections and echoes. At least i have a substitute for the latter, accompanied by silence, patience, and grace.
Oh, and stopping with the war and baseball analogies—smh, what can i say, i truly am American.