On the last day of 2004 I was faking hopes and a schedule of motivations that no longer existed in me. I had lost all my classes and I had no professional perspective, nothing in view for the next year. Marjorie’s brother bought fireworks. He and the rest of the family were all very excited because, after all, they were continually prospering, which for them always meant making money and having more and better … – no matter what, as expected. And it looked like, according to the natural order of things, they would continue to prosper in the coming year. Even my father-in-law, who does absolutely nothing, had bought a new car.
But other forces were at stake. Something neither of them noticed, and it was clear to me that they couldn’t notice it. By the time I was thirty-five, and what was affecting me with a considerable level of concern wasn’t exactly being out of work for a period of time, but it was my secret answers. They were kind of intensifying. That was the point. And my intuitive perception of the current situation, forging reactions that I didn’t seem to recognize as mine, which I kept in silence, which I protected in the shadow, which I hid between my teeth, but which I understtood strong enough not to remain ignored, was now the focus of my active attention. All completely invisible to them. No interesting at all. A collapse without a voice. A fall in slow motion, almost an orange alert. Tiny suspended signs – which only lit lamps inside myself.
Until such a short time ago, my dynamism my energy my dedication to the classes and to everything envolved in this fertile universe of shared ideas was as natural as if I couldn’t be different from that. But now I was. Until when, I didn’t know. For any length of time, something impossible to guess. Almost a decade ago, I was recovering from dangerous questions that were self-diluted and almost declined to the innocuous condition of playful ghosts when I met Marjorie and began to live with her. With her and with her practicality her proactivity her certainty of getting what she wanted – as if the essential issues that moved my restless thought didn’t have the slightest, yes, the slightest importance. And she wanted me.
Project fading away
Picture: Fritz Bultman. New York Post. 1939.