The Write Thing

August is a month of renewal in my personal calendar. It may be because the end of the month signals a new year of my life, a sort of willing or unwilling rebirth that will hopefully come full circle in the next 12 moons.

Virgo, an earth sign. Supposedly, natives are known for their perfectionism and meticulousness, as well as their ability to keep their feet on the ground. An acid and sharp critic tends to reside in those born under the influence of Mercury. Interestingly, the four elements mark astrological signs in sets of three. In a single human being, diverse combinations of these elements often reside, but…can they co-exist?

Logic would indicate that they can and they do. Earth and water, for example, would make a good combination, as long as water is not overdone and a marsh suddenly traps the feet of the intrepid wanderer. Air and fire are trickier, although a soft breeze is always welcome to calm a unwilling spontaneous combustion. Fire is a challenge, indeed. Once, while I was indulging in a stalwart defense of my fire friends Aries, Leo and Sagittarius, somebody just shared a good word of wisdom with me…

“Honey, fire signs can light a fire, but they have no idea how to keep it going…”

Poor little fire creatures, I thought. They are really so much fun to be around though…Earth-based creatures like me tend to function relatively well with fire-born people, impatient and quick-tempered, yet as transparent as cellophane in so many ways. Actually, most of my friends are either Aries, Leo or Sagittarius, and love itself has knocked on my door carrying a torch a couple of times as well. I think I have a right to say something in that department, and it would be all positive….well, or at least I’d like to remember the good times.

However, my root element is earth, mutable and yet unmovable. Earth supports the beings that grow on it, hiding part of them underneath, providing the nutrients for life to exist, grow and, sometimes, persist. In a curious way, earth both reveals and it covers, and sometimes it is difficult to tell. Its changes can be imperceptible, requiring patient observation before transformation becomes visible. Earth is normally ready to work and be worked on. However, its inherent lack of mobility leaves it more vulnerable to the other three elements. After all, a fire, a drought or flooding can all result in death.

It must be the reason why when earth meets its equal, there is a mutual, unspoken understanding. There is some degree of patience, enough to dwell on the gradual possibility of growth rather than a quick idealistic flight of fancy. And yet, passion is there, deep, intense, vital…because all the elements are about life and death, but your element is  your equal and you know it.

I have found you, my equal and my love. I am in my element.

Would it be too irrational to say there are people who fear facts and people who fear feelings? Oh, I know…you would say that feelings are also facts, but that is where I think you go wrong. Feelings are not facts. Feelings change. They evolve, revolve, and sometimes even falter. They grow stronger, weaker…they fade. They confuse, dazzle, hurt, relieve…but all the time they are incapable of stasis.

Instead, facts do not change. They are. Intransitive verb, period. A chasm, a void, uncertainty towering because there is no exit. Facts are cruel and irreversible. Disease is a fact, love is not. Disease is a limitation with an outcome that eventually will be another fact, but love is not. Love is free as a concept, yet a prisoner of its cradle. It grows, and it fades, layers of its skin spread on a spurious surface, a requirement of blind faith for those who choose to indulge.

Yet I am more afraid of facts than emotions. You cannot fight facts, but you can fight emotions, and many people do. Or maybe you can fight facts, but most of the time the victory or defeat will be external to you, and already a given. Yet, many of us mistake emotions with facts and refuse to fight, expecting loss as a token…naive souls…loss is part of every game we play

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate

I am leaving all hope behind me, and here I am…crossing the door.

Time is relative, I have observed. I know, there is a calendar to abide by, a given set of numbers that decide how long a year, a month or a day is. Yet, time is relative. It is relative to what we have and what we lack, to our plans and our pitfalls. Our life, as it unfolds, sets the pace of time — and sometimes lets us become aware of its power.

A week ago, we were having fun together, playing pool as if we knew the rules at Houston’s Chances bar. A week ago, you were Texan and I was British, and we laughed over a few drinks as we mixed up our accents while we dared each other across the table. A week ago, Saturday morning would bring the garbage pick-up trucks early on and we would leave our bed to have coffee together in the balcony. A week ago, we would make love and nothing would matter…or everything would. A week ago, time was a clock that set an arrhythmic pace, a city of urban bohemia in the summer heat, a ride to Central Market, a granita and an iced coffee at the Empire Cafe, a failed Cajun restaurant, a disruptive conversation of unknown impact. A week ago, we were whole, and time passed.

After you left the apartment a few days later and I closed the door behind your inaudible sigh, the mourning clock began to tick. Your absence filled each room as much as your presence had, only minutes before. I endeavored to change my routine to no avail. Eventually there would be something that, had you been there, would have been natural, would have felt right. But you were gone, and this time I feared an indefinite abyss. The emptiness of you felt stronger, perhaps because this house was ours for some days even while it was not, both of us being strangers in foreign land.

With you gone, I had nothing to cling to, only impersonal crooked pictures and faded comfort colors that would lull me to sleep until you called from a remote airport, enslaved by your own withdrawal of us. As I woke up to set the coffee brewing before my shower the next morning, or even as I returned home at the end of my workday, time was always relative. It was relative to its forceful repetition of itself without you…it was relative to you.