My old ball and chain and I have been as ships passing in the night lately. A vast black ocean cleaves betwixt us, an ocean comprised of class planning, syllabi, menstrual exhaustion, last-minute logistical freakouts, wedding anxiety, weird abruptly-begun projects such as my “History of Western Music 13th century to 21st century” double-disc with accompanying twenty-page booklet and the old man’s “Most Important (to Film Studies, Not To, Like, George Lucas, Although Not Necessarily NOT To Him, As He’s Clearly An Educated Guy When It Comes To Film) Scenes in Film History 1917 to Whenever 2001: A Space Odyssey Was Made” multi-DVD set that is going to apparently take 100 hours to burn.
Like ships passing in the night. Like two beautiful, self-contained luxury ocean liners, cutting swiftly and silently through the glassy black shark-filled water, faint sounds of piano lounge music drifting behind like smoke, perhaps a single wistful glance cast by one passenger across the yawning chasm to another, unseen, unknown, but sensed, or perhaps merely longed-for, that singular soul across the midnight ocean to whom another soul might bare itself, through whose healing flames of true love and knowledge said soul might be cleansed, but of whom said soul will never know anything, never experience the monumental presence of, due to the miles of dark water, fathoms deep, filled with creatures mysterious and terrible, the hulking bodies of great whales long dead, like the statues of kings that guard the ancient roads, the dark water filled with the drifting glimmering dust kicked up from some merciless depth eons ago and left to wander, blind and mute, in the unknowable sea, the implacable sea that separates one soul from the other.
Or, to put it more bluntly, he said he’d take out the garbage like five days ago and it has not happened yet, and, my friends, that is NOT MY JOB.