Retrospective: 25 November 2012: Reading The Loop by Jacques Roubaud, pt. 7

[To view this post in its original context, click here.] map 1: Bifurcation A: ยง132-145 map 2: pp349-383
And I despised myself for being there again, for being unable to stop myself from being there in my suffering and in the abandonment to absolute suffering that being there signified, as the light, unforgiven, fled beneath the door, withdrew from the wooden floor, from the windowpanes, from the ceiling, the books, the chair, from my hands, from my eyes, from all my attention to the sky, gathering in the clouds, in the still very luminous estuary of daylight between the rooftops. (p351)
[the flies] flew through the luminous air amid the motes of dust following irresponsible Brownian trajectories . . . (p358)
An image to which I have been returning and returning via irresponsible, mental Brownian movements, and like the proverbial moth (because it burns after all and every time) is the luminosity of her eyes during those first few months, particularly in the dark, like lanterns of deep blue in the bedroom, like (and here is the problem with most figurative language) ignis fatuus or swamp lights (the problem being that yes, they did, I suppose, lure me to a kind of watery death, but really all I was trying to describe was their color and intensity (and, of course, the watery part of the simile stands in direct contrast to me getting burned by revisiting the image)), but there the image nonetheless is, tempting in its happy associations, but ultimately tragic. I am, of course, afraid that "tragic" is too much, sounds maudlin, and yet, and yet . . . I go first to her eyes, and then to the image of a Polaroid photo taken around that same time, where both, or rather, all four of our eyes are shining (drunk, in love, drunk on love), and then to a poem, a wonderfully silly poem that used my last name (her eventual but also now no longer last name) in a rather nice bit of wordplay, and then probably back to her eyes glowing in the dark, before lurching (can one lurch within Brownian movement?) off to some other once-happy, now no-longer-but-hopefully-someday-again-happy memory, Brownian lurching, Brownian tripping, Brownian falling back to those eyes which said things never otherwise said, which said things her voice would (also around that time) deny or avoid, and here is a trap into which I can easily fall and say, "And here my troubles began," but it's not true, because if it is true there, then it's also true at a point/moment behind that one, and if true at that point, then true at a point/moment behind even that one, and on backwards down a slippery slope which extends back, eventually, past my birth and toward the Prime Mover, and only then does it approach the Truth: Our troubles began/begin with the In the beginning, they begin with the Word.