This is the second edition of Equations by Adam Fieled (2018), originally released as a Blue & Yellow Dog print book in 2011, and employing "Dialectic Form."
#21 Lisa is convenient for me and vice versa: we work together and, contrary to popular belief, sometimes it helps to eat where you shit. Lisa has big moon eyes, shoulder-length black hair, skinny, medium height. There is no specific mark to raise her looks above the ordinary. Our life together is founded on the maintenance of routines, rituals. We always smoke this much pot, have this many drinks, listen to this many albums per night. Where sex is concerned, we please each other, simply and without fuss. There is no universe but the visible one; nothing goes down or up. But how much of this is nothingness? I‟m not pushing deeper into anything; she‟s a solid mass, someone substantial that doesn‟t have to take me anyplace. Through a year and a half, this is the way it is. Then, I hear a siren call in the distance. It has spirit traces in it, a sense of romance. I learn that I cannot be a slave to routine; there is too much in me which craves the exceptional. I begin putting Lisa off: small ways first, then big ways. Another night like all the others suddenly feels consonant with horror. Shock, says Freud, is the necessary precondition of orgasm. While the orgasms I‟ve had with Lisa have been pleasant enough (she‟s been on the pill for the duration of the relationship), I‟m shocked into an awareness of Otherness through sex. The problem is that, strictly speaking, Freud is wrong; sex is (as most eventually learn) usually a domestic sport that holds no surprises. But (unfortunately) domesticated sex leads to bad art. So when I followed the siren away from Lisa, I was following a trail to more words, more images. Is this mature? Where sex and art are concerned, there is no maturity; there are just two imperatives in one puny body, with not too many breaths left, in this universe of a billion years. 28
#22 To dwell on that siren call: it isn‟t really transcendental. It‟s meant to lift you up, then plonk you back down again (wet or dry, as the case may be). It serves the siren, not you. Trish knows these rules very well, has studied them. Her approach to playing the role is methodical— you give them this much, and then draw back. Not everyone responds to Trish‟s particular wavelength because it presupposes not just intelligence but artistry. You must be a figure worthy of representation for her to take you seriously. Conversations must shoot up around colors, forms, images. The drunken nights I spend at her studio (white and red wine) are an epiphany. I‟ve never had my mind and body turned on at the same time. Trish knows this; she is going down the checklist. Her postures and gestures are bold and dramatic; when she takes the pins out of her bun and lets her long hair fall down her back, part of me falls, too. It‟s winter; the studio (three of the four walls being mostly windows) is chilly. I‟ve grown a slight moustache but, at twenty- five, still look boyish. Trish doesn‟t take my songs or poems seriously; they are unproven, not high enough. My thoughts crave her approval as my body aches for her submission. In this way, we dance. Trish is shrewd; she knows that, with my intense urgency, she must give in (at least once) almost instantly. She likes taking the superior position and her long torso contrasts neatly with Lisa‟s petite squatness. But (importantly) she hasn‟t fallen. She‟s played her part well; I‟ve fallen alone. 29