“ Transmissions of Wounds “
by S. Jovian Radheshwar
I remember her telling me about her
life, I recall all too well, these days, that is, after she has been
transported to regions away from my daily perception. I couldn’t recall any
facts or even factoids when she asked me to, to see if I had been paying
attention to her words. This always made her very upset, as she felt it
suggested that I didn’t care about her, or that I was being shallow, or that I
was thinking about another girl. Indeed, that was precisely how her thought
pattern started, and then developed, and then ended, along the same, terrible
and paranoiac thought-string. I always relented, as indeed it wasn’t so much
that I wasn’t paying attention as that I was taken, rendered comatose, and truly
psychically crippled by her allure. I was just a young man never having been so
terrifyingly successful with a hot girl prior. Sure, I’ve always, only ever
been with the hottest of the bunch, but what can I say, and I know as I stand
here by the window in March, a year later, I know the most hottestest of them
all got away from me. Hubris, poor hubris-having emotional Lilliputian I am,
inhale, exhale, and repeat. Then wander around the strip-mall lined streets of
The two of us once sat together, for many hours, days, even, speaking to only one another, and slowly brainwashing one another with our sounds and music. As I sat there one morning, or maybe evening, or maybe some other time, I remember she was naked, walking about my room, no, our room, and she was fiddling with the CD’s over near my computer table and easy chair. I thence later gifted her that chair, likely the only thing she ever considered me worthwhile for in relationship-retrospection. She chose to listen to Courtney Love, and in particular wished that I take a moment to listen to “Doll Parts”, which she said might explain her configurations and situations with more clarity than the words she produced in non-artistic confusion. You see, she was intimidated by me and my ways, which caused her to resort to such communications patterns, like playing a song. And lucky she was that back then, in those days, I was able to traverse between the methods of empathy with a will-gotten ease, and I understood, even though I was taken by her curves all the while. I understood, and that’s why I’m standing here today, inhaling, exhaling, and communicating to her through the metaphysical essence, opened up for my thoughts to go to her by the will of the music. This night, the cosmos organized briefly, and she and I, thousands of miles apart, sat there, and listened to “Doll Parts”.
“
Someday you will ache like I ache “
“
I love him so much it just turns to hate “
“Doll
Mouth, Doll Legs”
And on and on, I was trapped by her
self-defeatism, which kindled in me the worst type of self-defeatism I have
personally ever been subjected to. I have regressed into a neo-natal
experience, seeking shelter so that I might forget all that surrounds me, the
war in Iraq and the hatred in America, so that I can remember her, and tune in
her frequency through the metaphysical essence. Sometimes, other music does the
trick, and sometimes, recalling the days after
“
Confusion never stops, closin’ walls and tickin’ clocks “
“
Curse missed opportunities “
I guess the windows player moved on to Coldplay while I was lost in that. But really, trying to explain that girl was beyond me and my levels of comprehension, she was on another plane, one that was determinedly inaccessible to my intellectual gropings. It made those very gropings look more quasi-intellectual, actually. So now I sit around, and replay that song, not the Coldplay one, the Hole one, that I was blabbering about before. And Courtney Love just keeps talking about nobody really wants her but rather they want her tits instead, or something, and how that causes the general disassociation of women in America; reared in the environmental and social landscape of contradictory and convenient conservatism; from the joys of the sexual act. That just seems fucked up to me, and I wanted to say that, and the complex known to the smarter ones as a “slut complex” is one of the most tyrannizing elements of the young woman’s life, or so it seems to this admirer of them. Indeed, it affects us men in a reverse modality, whereby we are expected to remain always extraordinarily promiscuous to avoid condemnation, lest we be labeled something less than man. Sometimes, I feel so terrorized by this reverse modality of the “slut complex”, I feel compelled to work out at the gym all the time. Indeed, I have been doing so, with now-appearing results. The only point here being that I related to her, and her sense of being an outcaste, it revealed to me the nuances of her psyche, which filled me with curiosity and wonder, more or less, some of which has not even really worn off all that much yet. This is where it all started, with this dream girl, that I’ll never see again, where she began transmitting to me all her pain in heaping servings, weighing me down both comically, like Wile E. Coyote, and devastatingly, like a motherfucker done had a ton of bricks dropped on his head.
She was an expert at transmitting pain, the same type of pain that I have successfully transmitted onto others before, that she has no doubt repeatedly transmitted to others, as well. It all begins with the reduction and deconstruction of the target’s personality through the intensity of deep-storytelling and emotional dependency, which she and I are, and no doubt continue to be typified by, and were undoubtedly typified by back in those days. It all started with the momentous revelation of her conveyance to me of her mistake-ridden past, and my being liberal and what-not, my decision to ignore said insecurities and remain intrigued by the girl I fell in love with. However, her plans did not come to a close at that convenient juncture, and instead they developed, having sensed a parasitic broken heart in me, her target for pain transmission. From that moment on, her obsession with her promiscuity, and her increasing dislike of my anti-war and anti-white supremacy views, consumed both her and my day to day lives, and continued on for months and months. Prior to dating that poor girl, I spent two years of my life in a self-imposed emotional purgatory, whereby I shunned interactions with ninety-nine percent of the people I interacted with. I healed myself, the really fucking hard way, that is, and thankfully, after all that time all I’m smoking is the sticky green and never the nicotine, although I sure did have a run with that stuff there. Incidentally, I was talking about how she noticed my weakness and seized on it with the fixed eyes of a vampiric princess. And how that made me into the pathetic, self-aggrandizing, unpragmatic bloke I am on this very day. She was naked, in our room, in our home, when she played the disc that resulted in my obfuscation, which in turn led to my enlightenment, which in turn led to my managed demise at her beautiful hands, totally unknowingly, as I, like the American I profess to be, failed to perceive past the looks and underestimated her mind, which I could certainly never find. Mostly I done been drinkin’ too much a that there wine when it came the time to find out what she was really all about, and it was only sometimes the love of me that she professed to be seeking to represent but unfortunately and to my detriment the cycle never made it past her resentment fostered at the hands of her ex-boyfriends, of which there were certainly too many to count.
This has all been a cycle, my life,
this stupid little story, my relationships with women, etc. Unfortunately,
further so, like many other post-modern romances, mine have never followed any
timelines, and are thus occurring all the time and also never, as I must feign
to be clever lest I never get any more lovin’ again. And we can’t have that,
can we now? But I can’t space out that fucking memory, of my baby-girl playing
her Courtney Love, and making me fall for all that psychotic, narcissistic
bullshit.