from Equations

#34

The negative wisdom I learn from Trish is much trickier.
Because she gives me her body, without stint or reservation, I never
quite realize what she takes back for herself. She has my emotions
on a string; she holds the passkeys to my moods; my days are oriented
around her. Because she is sparing in the way she presses my sore spots,
it’s difficult to notice that she’s mastered them— where they are,
how to tweak them.  Over a period of years, she learns sophisticated
techniques to keep my string ties to her tautened. One favorite button
has to do with the past, or what Joyce calls “The Dead”: when she zaps me
with past lovers, I dance madly. Or, that she’s suicidal— nothing
lasts, nothing’s worth it (which means, of course, I’m not worth it either).
I dance into my caretaker suit and try to hit the right buttons on her switchboard;
but she’s better at hiding things than I am. It is her best trick to make me
responsible for her entire existence. Because I try to and cannot make her
want to live, I’m a failure and an embarrassment. The only thing
that goes up about this situation is its extremity— the high sense of drama
she builds into her flourishes. She’ll be Ophelia, even if I refuse to be Hamlet.
She twirls in circles, makes herself dizzy; drinks, intoxicates herself; pictures
herself in a Gothic romance. I’m as enthralled as I am stymied by my own impotence.
There’s so much beauty to Trish’s spectacles; but they fall down when you realize
her essential aim is selfish. She needs to maintain her position
as the center of attention. She leaves permanent scars, with all this
negative wisdom, but my truth is simple: no one wants to be completely mastered.