b h a g . n e t visual and conceptual exchange b h a g . n e t
WOMAN
Woman believes she has caught me in a lie. I smiled when she was brunette. Walked with her when she was red. Touched her hand when blonde. Said hello, out of the blue, when she was silken black. Smelled her skin when pale, when dark, when warm-hued. Breathed in, as she breathed out, a sweet breath of every scent. Why can't she see that I have always loved her, everywhere and at all times. Loved her, liked her, delighted in being where she is and hearing what she says and seeing her hearing me. She is everything to me.
But she is hurt. Hurt by my incessant attention, incessant exploration, my continual rediscovery of her. No, not so often in the fullest sense, as in the little daily events of smile and talk, of friendly communion, brief or lasting. But every discovery is a loss, she says. She warns me, accommodates me, shuns me. I run back to her because she is woman and from her because she builds a dam to hold my love. My heart breaks when hers breaks.
And breaks when hers does not beat to my touch, and that is wrong, wrong to break then. My first thought is: She loves man and I am man and how can she not love me? How can she say I am not a man? But I know how. I do the same. I love woman and yet there are so many times and places in which I feel nothing, say nothing, want no give and take with her. And in wanting nothing, say she is not a woman. A terrible thing to say. No woman or man should ever hear those words. But we hear them again and again.
She believes I promised to find her once and be done. This world has made her the promise. I am not this world. I did not say it. Maybe what I am saying now is too much; too simple to be true, or too true to safely say. It is as though I am talking about loving an abstract all. If loving all, can I love any one? Can any one love me? I don't know. I only know what I feel with all my heart and I will not suppress it. There is power in clarity; weakness in obfuscation. Any who cannot love me will at least know me—and I am not convinced that knowing is anything other than loving.
© 2003 John Clay