.

denouement

it doesn't take Deleuze to figure
out that, on some level, there is
one particlar question that always
hangs in the air of any social
situation, requires no answer
and will never be spoken outloud
(unless someone breaks the rule,
in which case, the exhilaration
of multiple lines of flight will
be killed). better to let it live
as a nebulous notion of multiplicity
so it can loom large in the ether
because no matter how remote a shot,
without it, if there is no what-if
tension to any given gathering,
then all that's left in a room
are dead stars and endless space).

so there it is. in the gym,
at an opening, wherever any
three are gathered. variables
don't matter to the question.
it's the asking that counts;
'which one of us would you pick?'
becomes the only thing worth
investing one's attention in.
forget the fact that any one
of the three of us might actually
be in an incredibly satisfying
relationship. also, forget that
all three of us might actually
be standing at one of the two
guys` wedding receptions
(who just happens to be holding
a non-refundable plane ticket
departing shortly for his own
hot brazilian honeymoon). and
it doesn`t matter if the other
guy has recently been diagnosed
with full body cancer and has,
at best, a few short hours left
to live, or, alternatively, has
made a life-altering decision
to join the Tibetan priesthood
and move to Nepal in, say,
precisely 15 minutes, where
he will live out the remainder
of his celibate life in an
isolated monastery with no
way to return, due to the
war-torn circumstances of
its geography.

and forget the fact that I may
also be happily involved with
someone else, who, say, just
happens to be another woman
(which I`m not, but just let`s say) ...

none of this matters.

despite all the hairy details,
the unspoken guy-question remains;
`yeah, girl, I know all that, but
if you had to pick just one of us ... ?'

...

of course, the question has it's
own magnetic pull, drives any
social cirucmstance to the point
that it affirms to (all three
of) us that we are indeed still
alive, and keeps us firmly
anchored to the planet of
earthly desires so that we
don't spin off the floor and
spiral uncontrollably back
into the black nothingness
of our own private places
(by which I mean our respective
residences, which, admittedly,
can, at times, be a little
void of exotic possibility).

so there it is.

and it's not that women
tolerate this unspoken querry.
we actually love it, even thrive
on it, because the alternative,
the deafening black hole of
unquestioning silence, of
absolutely no possible tension
to ignite our inner what-ifs
and to (re)charge us with that
little maybe-buzz that courses
so pleasantly throughout our
entire orbit, is, well,
everything.