Vol. II. Issue. III September 2011 - The Criterion: An International ...

www.the-criterion.com The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN 0976-8165
Olympia
E. Eller
San Francisco USA
If there is a dark and hostile power which traitorously fixes a thread in our hearts in order that,
laying hold of it and drawing us by means of it along a dangerous road to ruin, which otherwise
we should not have trod--if, I say, there is such a power, it must assume within us a form like
ourselves, nay, it must be ourselves; for only in that way can we believe in it, and only so
understood do we yield to it so far that it is able to accomplish its secret purpose.
- E.T.A. Hoffman, The Sandman[1]
I wait.
Seth says he's on his way. He said so just before midnight and now its 1:30 in the morning. I
don't expect him to show up until 3am or 5am or 7am. He's done this before. He's said he'll
come over and then doesn't show until hours later. He comes once everyone else in my building,
the neighborhood, the entire city, falls into a state of slumber so complete, we find ourselves
truly alone together. No one else has ever even seen us together. No one knows we know each
other. We become the only people awake on Tuesday at a time in the morning that does not even
exist for those who are asleep. We build upon the allotted number of hours in the night. When
he comes, the night seems to go on forever. The little game we play is a matter of preying on
one another. Right now he has the advantage because he's not here. He hasn’t come yet like he
said he would so I suppose I’m at his mercy because I’d rather he was here.
“On his way,” he said. Which is to say his way is the way he goes. His way goes on. The
onward way is his. When words go through so many iterations, meaning collapses. The
repetition falls flat and what remains is only an echo of an echo. That’s where art comes from –
echoes. Sometimes, I feel like its not him I’m really after, but some kind of performance, as if
he and I were an artwork, being created. “On his Way.” Is it true? Is he really on his way? I
don’t want to lose sight of this. And how can I keep it here unfolding still, my hope.
If Seth came to me earlier during the hours when people are awake, it might seem like we were a
couple. But I’d never call it that. And besides, I wouldn’t want to have an audience. I wouldn’t
want anyone to know. I like secrets because they give me something to think about when
everyone else is talking about one thing like the way hair grows on a newborn and my thoughts
are somewhere else, somewhere unattainable. Behind the daytime, our hours stay hidden. And
if my friends knew what I have been doing, they'd try to stop me. They’d think I have a
psychological illness. Am I hurting myself? Should I be cured from this self-loathing that is so
exquisitely my own and which Seth enables me to express?
In the hours I spend with Seth we don’t seek to remedy this. We spend our time doing cocaine
usually or sometimes we drink cheap Chardonnay, listening to opera. If at some point we can
find the edge of things, the edge of feelings, then we see something light up. We see the material
of this behavior, like finding the paint on the canvas and seeing it for what it is, a trompe l’oeil
illusion. That is enough. One time he tried to suffocate me with a pillow. He fucks with my
head. I don't care if we ruin ourselves. That’s why we meet when no one else is awake to
criticize. Our time follows a different clock. Our time ignores the overbearing system, which
insists on mindless cooperation. It is the only time we really have, to make of our time what we
will, because it is actually so rare to be able to fill the time without any consideration for others.
Vol. II. Issue. III 268 September 2011