3.
Standing in the dingy glow of my door light his shadow cast warmly almost touching me. His confidence and vulnerability were both, simultaneously, concerning and endearing. I wanted him and I feared him; and I think that all relationships of textured and rich meaning evoke these feelings in me. Love is to want and to fear. It’s heralded as something selfless, divine. But those that have loved me, truly just loved themselves, and those that I have loved, well, it was also a loving of myself.
Selfless acts of love end with selfish acquisitions. Christ’s selfless act of love, proclaimed as the greatest act of love in the western world, ended with the acquisition of divinity. To truly love selflessly is something humans and divinity will never know. One day, though, perhaps, I will love selflessly. One day, perhaps, there will only be love, completely removed from any gain I could possibly hope for. But for now, I wanted him, and there was something to be gained.
“Coming in?” He nodded: yes. He was coming in.
He stepped inside. Close to him, I am both big and small.
The paradox of offering love, of giving one’s self fully is clear; in giving love, one also receives. In giving myself to Philos, now, something becomes clear in me. Something, myself, is now held in greater definition. To say that Philos only means wisdom is ridiculous, for it can also mean love. To say that I, Sophia, only means love is a lie, for I also mean wisdom.
Disambiguation is a direct meaning of Philos, and I can’t help but think that both love and wisdom is cause for clarity. In love, we became clear and we know what matters. In wisdom, we became uncluttered, in orbit of the essential. As I entered into Philos’ magnetism, I became defined.
“This is my home,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. He had become shy, sliding and rolling in between complete assured existence and uncertain porousness. His soul was open and his heart was filled with holes. Holes I could never fill myself, but perhaps he would let me hold them – and perhaps in holding them, they would begin, themselves, to fill in.
Though premature, one thing was certainly true; I knew I loved him, without hesitation.
The way she held me with her eyes was almost uncomfortable. I recall, once, looking into the eyes of a supposed enlightened guru, guru something-or-another, and though I thought his whole thing was complete shit: the room, the decorations, his hippy bullshit devotees, the music, incense, and roaming turtle doves, there was something about the meeting of our eyes that was completely safe and completely fear evoking. The alluring power of her pull was of a Jupitarian nature, and I was slowly, consciously and unconsciously, giving myself to her.
I had the impulse to give her a high-five. Do people still high-five? Do lovers, before enacting love, high-five? I doubt it. And if it was to occur, I think that it would not lead to the foreshadowed act of love we both seemed to anticipate.
“Do people still high-five?” I asked. Silence broken.
“Yes, I think they do.” She held up her hand and cocked her applesque head to the side. My hand collided with hers. We high-fived. Her head dropped in a playful giggle. Her body wiggle and then shook, and she let out a little laugh while covering her mouth like a Japanese teenager. “We need a drink, Philos, don’t you think.”
“Yes. Yes.” Yes, please, anything to tame these butterflies.
“I think I only have whisky.”
“Bless your heart. That should tame them.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The butterflies; they’re a bit unruly right now.”
“Passive aggressive…”
“Aggressive aggressive.” She poured. Classic, vintage glasses, in her vintage guesthouse, in her vintage neighborhood, with its’ vintage street lamps. Her house, simple and elegant, in its classic-Hollywoodness-ness; it had a soul, and that was the most pronounced decoration. The soul, accessorized by ceiling moldings, large French windows, door tiles, in a large studio, with a separate walk in closet, kitchen and bathroom, like all soul-established Hollywood guesthouses.
Like her home, it was her soul, accessorized by her body, heart and mind that held me. Though it was dark, we sat together in the light.
It was a simple room with a glowing wood floor. A bed, a chase, a book shelf which would be thoroughly explored later, stacks of music, a violin, a cello, and a music stand placed in front of a stool, all supported by the warm glowing floor, all held to earth by the mystery of gravity.
“You play?” I asked. Stupid question. Stupid fucking question. She giggled. Stupid fucking question.
The significant thing about gravity in the Newtonian perspective is that all objects, in a vacuum, fall at the same speed eventually reaching what is called terminal velocity, which is the fastest speed at which anything can fall.
“Yes. For the Los Angeles Philharmonic. It’s my job.”
“Really? That’s gorgeous.” What she did had not yet occurred to me or concerned me. Who she was: now that was important! “I played once, for a short time. For just two years I think.”
“The cello or the violin?”
Outside of a vacuum, within an atmosphere, things theoretically fall at the same rate, except the variable of atmospheric resistance. An object with more mass has greater gravity available to it, and thus has a greater effect on space/time.
“Violin.”
Through my body, a bird chases a butterfly.
“The violin was my first love, but the cello sings me.”
Here’s the really interesting thing though: a vacuum is space, or that’s to say, empty of almost all gravity, yet mass cannot exist without gravity and gravity cannot exist without mass; they are simultaneous arising phenomenon.
They are perhaps one and the same.
“I like that – sings me.” She sings me, I think.
The gravity of Sophia was directly equal to the mass amounting as her. I create those I am with, with my thoughts and feelings for them. Sophia was become a galaxy, in my universe, and galaxy of great mass.
“I do too. That’s when I really learned to play – when I let myself be sung. The cello was the first instrument to sing me, and because of that I’ve never left it.”
“My first and only teacher was a grumpy, old German man. He played in the German national orchestra for years, before moving to the states and slapping young students on the wrist with his dusty old bow.”
“Typical German,” she said.
“I didn’t count. And that was my demise.”
“Yes, you can’t play if you don’t count.”
“You can’t play if you don’t count. That’s what he said,” I spoke and nodded in agreement with her. “You can’t play if you don’t count,” I said in my worst German accent while wiggling my finger
He sat. There was beauty organized beneath his outer rough, unshaven features. His green eyes sparkled; there was great vision in his heart, and yet a shadow of pain. He was afraid, but challenging his fear. Heart both open and closed, he desired me. I could feel the pull of his body, of his gut. The attraction between us was instinctual, raw, and organic. His hair fell in his face, like Kurt Cobain; but not so much that his strong jaw was concealed. His pain covered him too, but not so much that his heart was concealed.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I write and I work in a coffee shop.”
She giggled. “You and everyone else at the Drawing Room.”
“No, I think a few, at least, sell bud.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure. What do you write?”
“I’ve been researching and writing about gravity for the last year.”
“You write scientifically?”
“No, philosophically. Gravity, though based in science, is really philosophical in nature. It’s still a theory, see.”
“Not really, babe.”
“We take gravity for granted because things fall and we walk upon the earth, but ultimately gravity is just a theory – it can’t be proved. There are consistencies, at least, in the Newtonian perspective, but by the time we get to Einstein, the universe is an organized clusterfuck, and gravity is a flexible variable, at best.”
“Why did you start reading and writing about gravity?”
“Moments like this – moments like you.”
“A girl?’
“Yes.”
“Her name?”
“Annie.”
“She betrayed you?”
“Yes, but I still loved her, for a long time. I still perhaps do.”
“I suppose you will forever.”
“I suppose I will too.”
In a sun drenched garden a butterfly floats, from nowhere, in hovering descent. The monarch twirls; a juvenile dancer among bleached flowers and leaves, singing of daisies with movement driven by sunbursts and carefree indifference. Defying gravity, her wings flap visionary speeches of great human potential. She softly, gently comes to rest on a petal. Fanning her wings cool, she imbibes, held by gravity.
Eyes closed. Warm and soft sun light slowly pulled me from the drunk, intoxicated depths of sleep. There were new smells and different feelings; I wasn’t at home. And then the night of last rushed forward, a new universe created. I rested for a moment, with warmth on my face, and light streams cascading behind my eyelids – and then, open!
I was in bed alone. She was gone. A note:
darling –
you’re beautiful. i had to go to practice and couldn’t
think to wake you. see you soon, i hope? no need
to lock the door. it’s always open. help yourself to
coffee, and stay as long as you like.
you were amazing last nigh. thanks for the gravity.
xo – Sophia
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