battle scene

ben goertzel

How many times could it happen.  He yells, she yells, he screams, she 
screams, she throws a pot or pan, he bangs his fist on the wall.  They 
are real, they exist, they love.  They understand each other perfectly, 
but somehow can't understand each other at all.  Someone get 
pisses, throws out last words of hate and fury, stalks out the door 
and walks.  Hours later everyone is calmer, there are hugs and kisses, 
apologies, the clothes come off, the heat gets higher, everyone 
fucks and sucks and laughs and everything is wonderful.  Or maybe 
there are still tears, maybe she has a hard time forgiving him even 
though he doesn't think he did much of anything, perhaps a few 
harsh words, too harsh, but they were in return to her own harsh 
words after all, so wasn't it a little bit hypocritical for her to be so 
fucking pissed at him when he had equally much right to be pissed 
right back at her but he just wanted to kiss and make up, to make 
sweet love and be wonderful happy.   Or maybe she was the one 
who was all kissy and huggy and thought everything was Ok but he 
wanted her to be whomever, you know, someone with magic or 
reason or something, not just this woman, crying angry one minute 
kissy lovey the next and never able to see why he might get pissed 
that she never wanted to see a movie with him or that she ogled 
that guy so ostentatiously, of course everyone is attracted to good-
looking members of the opposite sex but do you have to show it off 
so obviously and do you have to watch those stupid TV shows when 
I'm trying to think in the house, don't you know I have a pyramid of 
15 interlocked algorithms in my mind and when you turn on that 
goddamn Roseanne rerun it all collapses like a house of imitation 
Pokemon cards?  And why do you get mad at me for laughing at 
your music, girl, you know it's a piece of shit, the same 3 chords, 5 if 
you're lucky, and imitation feelings no depth or truth or meaning, 
it's all ridiculous, not even random no soul no perfection just 
acceptance of the universe as a mediocre evil place.  I'd rather listen 
to a chorus of sea monkeys farting.  Christ.  

Anyway they got along like shit.  This and shit are anagrams.  And 
they loved each other  madly, each vowed to split up every couple 
months, but somehow anagrammed back together, turning the shit 
into a this, the strange solidity of reality made not by object but by 
the mutually created culture of two people who control each others' 
bodies and minds in good and bad ways.  Not the craziest pair of 
lovers on earth, god knows not the best either, just man and 
woman, woman and man, existing ongoing you and me, being all 
that they can be, tie me up and we'll be free, and on and on and on.  
And so many perfect loving moments.  The whole universe stopped 
and it was only the two of them, there in the eye of the invisible 
hurricane of the long-blossomed thoughts of the delirious creator.  
Nothing got better than you and me, this and this, Eugene and 
Papaya.  Nothing was more blissful, more serene and fantastic, 
exciting electricity freaking through all the cells and providing 
understanding everything, universe voyaging back to the beginning 
before the void knew it was the void.  This is really fucking amazing.  
It's not what I envisioned but it's tangible astounding.  First, before 
anything else, there was this and it was amazing.  First, before 
anything else or anything else.

And so the drama unfolds.  Is their love dead?  Or is there hope after all?  

Can true love ever really die?  They got quite sick of each other, 
that's for sure.  But at the point where they were ready to pull apart 
once and for all, something peculiar emerged.  Was it a flower from 
the garden, the wondrous garden of Nonsense, fragment of Eden, 
that charges us all with divine light?  Very hard to say, hard to say, 
hard to say indeed.  But does it matter really?  

Spark in the velvet dark.

I hate you fucking hate, I howl your liquid bleeding anguish across 
the canyons of the moon, strange beauty of vile murderous 
inclinations, I have murdered 21 human beings, I have committed 
thousands of burglaries, robberies, larcenies, arsons and last but not 
least I have loved her too intensely, poured far too much of my soul 
into her still mysterious beaker

Howl, vexation of love!
Howl, vexation of fucking love!

These feelings are not protected by the natural laws of the universe
These feelings are not protected by the Constitution of the United
 	States of America, nor the Declaration of Independence, nor
 	the by-laws of the UN Security Council
These feelings are not protected by tortoise-shells real or
	metaphysical, dull or luminous, matter or antimatter, negroid 
	mongoloid caucasoid or aboriginal
These feelings are not protected by bullshit, by fake personality, by
	coolness or nonsense or fucking goddamn shit
They are out there  real  open  nerve ending sensitive  ready to
 	be wounded or fulfilled
Grab me baby!  Take me, do what you will.  
I know I can survive it.
Never venture, never gain

Strange beauty of delusions, confusions, illusions
Bang my head on the wall again, get a contusion

O darling, O darling,
my sweet little sweet
Can you ever, I mean Ever, 
make me complete?