Karma is not letting go.

When I bumped into him at the university library it came out raw but ready, ”Et tu!” Like an old dress hanging in the closet for 23 years that still fits. Sometimes a chance encounter cannot feel more like the final blow in a round of punches.

It had been one of those mornings when momentum was on the side of the silicon chips that never believe in failure but have no space for your person. Phoning institutions and repeating the same sob story seven times. Computer says no. Good luck.

Luck and me are not an item.

Had it not all started with him? Had being cut up over him and his notion that “to use” is a good verb (we use hoovers and toasters and flowerpots to do good things) not caused me to despair and make me self-destruct? What is the worst thing you can then do?

Get pregnant by somebody you find repulsive.

Clearly, I had expected nothing else but his pedantic surprise. It came as if to prompt my long-awaited parting message. But how do you say goodbye for now after a matter of fact, “Good-afternoon, fancy meeting you here!”?

"Et tu" was not meant for him really, but actually voiced the running commentary from my angel, who meant to say "et ipsum".

He couldn't put his finger on why I should have, but I sounded critical. He looked momentarily quizzical, not comprehending what I had shot his way, without a flinch of surprise in return. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the Latin (he didn’t, but who can’t place the commonplace quote in its brutal context?); it was not about what he did not have or never had or bothered to get, but it was precisely that he did have the consciousness (after all!) to comprehend the karma of us was (still) not done. No, deep freezing is never the solution. Wait till the back up generator does not come on!

Nothing untied, severed, gone up in flames to be reborn a phoenix from a golden egg. Nada, zilch, zero. Now, it was too late, was all he could really know. It could never be over this life time. He had one foot in the grave for his age alone. No amount of incense could plead our case and set us free now. I made sure I kept it between us, I cannot let him get away with it. The sloppy gods let too many men off the hook.

Silly Old Bear

It did not take him long to cock his head to one side and let it flash across his mind that I might not have done as he so emphatically had requested I do, forseeing his boredom with me, but nervous about me stepping on the cracks of his pavement nonetheless, “Please think kindly of me, if it should come about that we need to part ways.” I remember smiling and thinking, don't be silly. I either forget you or we simply continue at odds, but I cannot ever forgive you if this is all you are going to invest in us. With this in mind, he tentatively inquired, “How are you?”

I cocked my head to line up with his as if we were a couple of toucans from the curtains in his living-room, a little too bold for his liking. “I am exactly the same.” I cocked my head to the other side, heck, let's try taking the lead now that I am no longer young enough to be patted on the head as a good girl. He had already retorted, quick on the draw as ever, a little defensive, a little chivalrous, altogether nothing much at all, just aged, “Is that a good thing?”

I straightened my head, and pulled back my shoulders, and tapped the air between us with my library card clenched between my thumb and forefinger, as if to tally up the improvements upon all that was not good then. “Not as demure. Nor as wholesome. No longer anybody’s pillow, nor an ointment either.”

It was sinking in to him, that we were not done. He had not seen that one coming. How could he have? He never had caught onto that little thing called love. That ego-replacing space where the other may reside. What had kept him in the dark? My unassuming dumpiness? My not being either a Sonntag nor a Dickinson? Above all, not caring a fig for the pretensions of Pope, let alone Swift? Of course there was no sexual attraction, no thrill - just a small (tide me over) comfort. There was nothing between us but what once was. And so it carries over, every life-time again, like in a long division that separates nothing, just keeps on sharing out the love, expanding this us into the wholeness of existence.

The bitterness is not quite right. Next round, I'll have to tinker with the tone. It is unappealingly dissuasive. Like bad punctuation. Perhaps, next time I'll go easy on the cruciferous bile. It is just, I am the bored one here. I had it all figured out, before it even went down. That’s the whole dumb spiel, where my guardian angel’s inspiration is some new fad programme that uses adversity to gather momentum at the very last spadeful of dirt piled on top of you. You are supposed to burst out back into the wide open field out of the grave of everybody else’s karmic events. It’s Dharma 2.0. Yeah. Cool. Groovy. Not getting my vote so far.

My last remaining friend, who will be leaving me in 37 days, never to return, and will I ever make it to Portugal? gifts me the Rising Appalachia song above. I love the video and the bunch of ideosyncratic individuals they work with always. It proffers me hope. There must always be that as long as life goes on, or there will only be a wake of all you left undone.

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Photo dress by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash
Photo incense offerings by Chinh Le Duc on Unsplash
Photo toucan by Geoffrey Baumbach on Unsplash
Photo broccoli flower my own.