July 12, 2011

pulp/nonfiction



Instead of "heartbreak," they should refer to it as Heartwreck. Because it's never a clean break. Not even a dirty break. It's just an all-inclusive oblivion. There's no conceptualizing when it's not there, once it is.

The imagery of "break" is far too brittle. It's not an antique vase, tipped to bits off the credenza in the front room. It's not the snap of bamboo. There is a collision, or at least that's more how it feels. It wraps around tree trunks at 90mph. That metal cannot be bent back to its original form, not perfectly. Your mettle remains dented, at least slightly. Or else it's a slow pressure. Like being exposed to outer space, that vacuum wrenching everything inside out.

There is a wreckage, not a breakage. Things must be salvaged from the remains. Remains are involved! Aftermaths! Everything is there but everything is changed. Charred dust, shattered glass, burnt and melted things-- nothing safe to touch ungloved. You will talk about it like a natural disaster, if natural disasters had personalities.

Witnesses will tell you, Well, it could've been worse. It's always, At least you still have your... or A similar thing happened to my friend Steve and you're not nearly as bad as him.
You tell yourself what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, not actually knowing if that even makes sense in a logical or practical manner. You run mad, kicking up dust and fury. You drink the Cool-Aid. 

For me, it's the pulp. The gross visceral inside-out of a beating twitching muscle, gurgling its own life force like mouthwash. There's squishy things and slimy and sticky things. I only ever feel it when it wretches in complaint within me. 
It doesn't sleep well, twisting in the sheets. Yet it seems to sleep forever. In recovery or in coma, it's at the bottom of the ocean, collecting barnacles. 

At least that's how it feels. And I just don't get that kind of perception from heartbreak