Wise, elegant and stronger, yes, than even the power of honesty alone (though this, too is implicit.)
From the immense wisdom that you carry with you through the world; a fierce torch amidst the frightened – the terrified and deliberately ignorant – that, i admit it i must, yes, that frame both our lives with a pall of sadness.
Our sadness. For what they choose. For their deliberate ignorance.
For their cowardice.
Their needless, futile unhappiness born in a loathing for themselves that they have learned and seen as what they are and
ALL that they can ever be.
You help so very many people in your life my friend. So many. Sometimes you make me feel very small by comparison, particularly since I became sick seven years ago with the whole chronic pain brain tumour thing.
I fought against it so hard for so long. I did not take painkillers or even admit that I was in agony to anyone for more than a year.
My artistic career has ended.
But the last year has been the happiest of my life.
I know that what has happened to me is like the origin of life itself.
It is kin to the sliver of a shredded edge of forsaken possibility that we exist all.
It is a shattered fool bleeding out, weeping as his strength, such strength, finally gutters and fails in the raging endless pain, and is healed by True Love.
I met a woman.
She is as strong as I am.
She is a genius.
I will be honest with you though I will never believe it in my heart and it is only because of the logician’s strike and flare in my mind that I believe it with uncomfortable and foolish… guilt –
but I know that i also am a genius.
I believe that this is something that I and my wife, my brilliant, strange, exuberant Kate are with every flit and flutter of our eyes and hands. It is our true moniker.
It is hard to write such things, I know. I know.
That you are also a genius tony ryan.
I believe that it is something that you understand, even if , like me, the curse of humility that claws at our hearts at the first hint of our heads being held high; of pride – even if this makes you, too, unable to believe it in your heart.
My wife will be many, many years if she ever manages it herself.
She is my soul mate, though neither of us believe in souls.
The hole in my heart, the gulf in my mind, the tear in my throat and the salt in my tears has always been something that I saw stretching out into my future like a road paved in broken glass broken weapons the last gasp of a hope so futile as to be delusional a lie like all the other miserable fools hating themselves and living cast in clay in shadow empty in their cowardice. The wound we, all men, and some women, carry with us, hurting us, hurting us. It is what kills men with their own guns.
The loneliness, tony, my friend.
My wife is a mirror without a distortion a speck of dust an occlusion of sight a failing sun .
She is myself.
But she is five feet high, weight 44 kgs, has black hair, pale, pale skin, and renders me mute with wonder when she and eye touch when she is naked before me. Her breasts have been completely ignoring gravity since they came into existence. She has NO GAG REFLEX.
When we fuck I can almost feel what she feels like her heart beating wildly in her chest against my own.
I was WRONG.
That there are so few.
The unbelievable scarcity of wisdom and pride. Of honour and the acceptance, the endorsement, the healing righteously earned and manifestly won with pain and love and woe and work.
Worn as the trophy, the Sigel of strength, the glyph cast in blood and sweat that it is.
That almost every person I have spoken to lives cupped under a crowded sink cold and reeking and constricting any kind of growth, the least shrug of an attempt to stand driving the person to their knees in terror.
In terror of their OWN TERROR. In a trap that they have MADE.
But my wife my wife she is my twin waking next to her is – I feel the excitement, the warm truth in the swell of happiness at even the thought of opening my eyes in bed and seeing her next to me.
AND WE WILL BE TOGETHER FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES.
My bleeding heart… the wound, the old wound, the heart under my Ribs and fingers and flickering ad hissing at my eyes.
I thought that it was impossible.
But it is not.
It is just… staggeringly rare.
The gentle, strong and beautiful hands of a man, like me, born to love women, born wounded, a hole in the heart, murdering the light in our eyes. All of our lives.
A man like you. Tony Ryan.
I believe that you carry that luck, that seeking heart, heaving and heavy and hurting.
You must find her.
I have never really even understood that happiness was real.
But it is.
Don’t despair, my friend.
I know that hope hurts you. I hear it twist into your skin behind the words you write so beautifully under the works of your arts.
But perhaps more than anything else, you UNDERSTAND LIFE.
you can see the WORLD, and it breaks your heart.
You feel alone.
held only by women who lie.
To you. To you.
And for all of their waking hours, for every thought, for every meeting of skin to skin lip to lip, word, touch, for all of their lives, to THEMSELVES.
But fucking hell man.
I met a genius goddess who can read latin who starts her masters in archaeology next year… who believes me when I tell her she is beautiful because she understands with a depth that is the same, the SAME AS MY OWN, that I am telling her
She understands my own wisdom. She understands her own.
My heart, my HEART my friend, my brother.
It is healed!!
The wound has closed!!!!
There is hope. Hope for love. Hope because if the miracle of chance that someone as strange and clever and gentle as me can meet a woman who matches me, matches my every wish and desire, matches my bloodily earned strength with her own, then there is a love that will heal you.
Your heart will stop its bloody dripping into the long nights. Alone. OR with each woman who does not, who WILL NOT, hear the droplets nor see the red trickle glitter upon your muscular flank.
I am whole. I have a brain tumour, a chronic mental illness, chronic, untreatable neuropathic pain, my wife and I are presently attempting to live on $250 a week for BOTH OF US.
But I am whole.
I am whole.
You will find your equal. And she will love you well. You will see her, and the moment her sad curious eyes light upon your own, you will KNOW.
And the wound shall seal.