The coversations we won't be having.


"I guess this means we're going to war. You wanna drink to that, Alina?"

Thus, the tripwires line our conversation, and my ski-sore muscles remind me that flippancy is always the best offense. I sit with my family before the fireplace, safe from the flames-- hell, I'm an American, aren't I? My favorite fire is the friendly kind. My favorite fire is the one you can buy for $20 at Urban Outfitters and stick in the VCR. My favorite fire lacks the afterburn.

What can I say when these scenes are scripted? Should I search for that velvet margin within my body that others might call "courage"? Should I even start this conversation, knowing where it ends? Can I be stoic-sweet, angel-bubbly? Can I be good?

I'll be so good they'll add me to the Pantheon. Not only will I be good, I will be God-like. I'll remind them that Yahweh was originally a volcano god, linked to the majesty of nature and our human inability to control it. I'll remind them that we created Yahweh from our fears-- because we're more comfortable with ghosts than voids. Because we prefer any lie to such cold comfort. We converge where things no longer correlate.

Have this conversation for democracy. For the graceful glory of ruins and the sharp-edged promises of victory. Call me the courtesan of disaster, the one who beckons your worst fears. Every label fits. Watch me rub one word against the other, softly first, to generate a little friction, maybe start a fire, or something less violent, laughing when my father hands me a drink, proffered with a smile. We drink to defuse things. And love defused is just dead letter.

It isn't my defiance that makes you uncomfortable-- no, it's the fact that, when we play these little games, no matter how witty the talk, how pretty the ambiance, we all walk away disappointed. For all the smoke, there is no fire-- nothing to keep us here, nothing to bring us back. The decorations lack luster. The whole piece destroyed by the decrescendo.

From Joyce Carol Oates' short story, "The Stalker".

"Fate. Why, Matilde Searle has often wondered, do we so crave romantic love as if it were our destiny-- our private, secret, individual fate? As if romantic love, yes let' s be candid and call it sexual love, the real thing, might define us in some way nothing else (our families, our hard-won careers) can define us. I've never known who I am except when I've been in love, Matilde has said, and I haven't recognized that self and I haven't admired that self and I can't bear being that self again."

In Memory of My Feelings by Frank O'Hara


And now it is the serpent's turn.
I am not quite you, but almost the opposite of visionary.
You are coiled around the central figure,
the heart
that bubbles with red ghosts, since to move is to love
and the scrutiny of all things is syllogistic,
the startled eyes of the dikdik, the bush full of white flags
fleeing a hunter,
which is our democracy
but the prey
is always fragile and like smething, as a seashell can be
a great Courbet, if it wishes. To bend the ear of the outer world.