Et in Arcadia Ego

So, if you've read the previous entries in Vita Nova, then you'll know something very special happened to two otherwise unsuspecting people a couple years ago. More than special, actually. Unique, which is a word too often diluted nowadays with uncalled-for adverbs. Sort of like what's happened to "awesome." Youth have tried their best to ruin both words and strip them of all power. Unique is unique, and nothing else. (Makes me think of the kabbalistic word, eheiah: "I am that I am.") I'm also thinking of Fran Drescher in The Hollywood Knights when she queries Ken Wahl, "Did you come?" and he responds, "A little." To which she berates him with, "A little! Either you came or you didn't!"

Yes, our finding each other then was and thereafter has been unique. And no stinking modifiers need apply.

What I'm writing appears to be a love letter (and it is). You might wonder, then, why it figures here in this off-kilter memoir and isn't relegated to a locked diary. Several reasons. First is that my meeting Bast (let's give her a fitting name) really is the culmination of all the crazed craving described previously. It is indeed an integral part of the story, the denouement, even. I wouldn't want you to think I spent all those years preparing for no good reason. Imagine the Crusher was wrestling Verne Gagne in a televised two-out-of-three match, and they each have taken a fall. Then during the third fall, the television picture tube gives out before a conclusive pin. Like that.

Then there's that business of language again. What we found is very real, and though Bast still has doubts about formalism I think, it really seems to be the case that we built this reality ourselves. Passion, ecstasy and love of knowledge all went into it, with language bringing the triptych into clear focus as a unity. So, call it a weakness if you wish, but I simply can't resist painting the event in words, just to convince myself I really am awake. Not all that different from Timothy Leary's appraisal of expanded consciousness.

Finally, can you fault me for wanting to stand on a mountain top and proclaim in a booming voice to all who will listen just what she means? This kind of shit doesn't happen every day!

So what does she mean? If you haven't noticed, there is a common thread running throughout each and every entry (over a hundred now) in this memoir: I was determined to accept no substitutes in life.

From the very first chapter, First Steps, right on up to this one, it should be patently obvious that society has never been my guide, but liberté, égalité, fraternité. As Oscar Wilde said,
Society exists only as a mental concept; in the real world there are only individuals.
To put it in plainer language even though it doesn't quite capture the subtlety, I have spent a lifetime searching for that one person I just knew had to exist. All the while taking the road less traveled. The path took me through a very real abyss of almost two decades, but being a genuine Taurus, I never gave up though I wanted to. Again, with just one life to burn, nothing less than the pinnacle would suffice. Can you really imagine a five-year-old saying, "I'd like to be ordinary when I grow up." Never grow up, I counter with and avoid that problem.

I think Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes captured it well in their great song, All I Want Is Everything. Or if your tastes run more prurient, The Fugs' tune Supergirl weaves the same tale. (It actually does express a sweet sentiment, though the language might give pause to some; I can't remember the last time I heard the word "gash" in  popular music.) Hear it on their excellent live album, Golden Filth).

Put on your seatbelts.

Like I say, all throughout this blog I've hinted at the goal. I was looking for someone who places great stock in the individual and less in society. Someone who thinks her own thoughts and reaches her own conclusions. Someone unwilling to stand still, but pushes her mind, just for the hell of it, into new areas. Someone with whom conversations can go on forever, without constant explanations, glossaries or Cliff's Notes. Someone who's interested in everything. Someone, upon encountering something new, unusual or foreign, doesn't question why her mate might think it worthy of enthusiasm. Someone who believes classification by sex only concerns itself with who puts the seat down and has nothing to do with what a person can become. Someone whose vocabulary is not only fine, but includes that which might come out of a stevedore's mouth. Someone who places equal stock in reading and writing. Someone whose mind makes me horny as hell. Someone who looks at me fearlessly, hears all the stories, and understands. Someone for whom I never have to censor, even telling tales of the Graduate Dormitory at ISU, or Sheel-Teat and Tiny, or of escapades in troilism. Someone who appreciates mathematics as an art, or even that it is an art. Someone who shares the belief that who, where or how a person loves is of no concern to anyone else. Someone who inflames my senses perpetually, and understands why I so crave looking, touching and more. Someone whose most casual word makes me want to drop my trousers and jiggle, then prove a difficult theorem and explain it. Someone who not only evokes but invokes passion: cerebral, carnal and spiritual. Someone who likes to laugh. And thinks I'm important.

All I want is everything.

I detest how the incurious of this world insist on diluting words they can't or don't even try to understand. Throughout this blog, I've continually returned to the fact that I am and always will be an Aquarian, and the only thing that has kept me from losing the faith was a belief that the term "hippy chick" is not a pejorative. Far from it. It, a priori, encompasses everything enumerated in the paragraph antepenultimate to this. It describes a woman whose mind, body and soul evoke all passions Dionysian, Euclidean and Olympian.  It has always been the holy grail for those of my persuasion. In fact, since the Year of the Horse, in my lexicon, that term can no longer take an indefinite article. Consider something analogous in the words of Dr. Watson:
To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.
Likewise here. If you'll permit a bit of third person (not unlike how Reba talked of herself--see We're Having a Party), To Studs Kreitzer, she is alway THE hippy chick.

Now here's the funny part. I've always considered myself moderately self-observant and have recognized a fair amount of innate genuine sociopathy in me from the very earliest day of self-awareness. Now for the first time, I really care about what another is learning, thinking or making of herself. (Makes you wonder how I ever stumbled into teaching as a career). Though it took forty-seven years, I found the love that comes from helping someone to see herself through different eyes. I was finally ready not to be the common cad Oscar Wilde wrote of,
How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.
Then, from The Book of the Law,
I am above you and in you. My ecstasy is in yours. My joy is to see your joy. 
Any literalist who reads chauvinism in that needs to progress to the very next verse when Nuit gets on top. And again, in beautiful language.

But especially,
Every man and every woman is a star.
I had finally discovered THE hippy chick and in so doing found the real meaning of it all. Which brings me to my final point. Two lovers, each with crossed wires, are in every way perfect.

Next installment: θέλημα

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