17 November 2000 ~ Helena the eschatological wonder...

My butt hurts.

I think I slept upside-down or something last night. Walking six miles did nothing for my condition. I believe my tailbone may be permanently misaligned.

Why did you walk six miles, Helena? What the hell?

Well, it started last night -- around noonish (I was still asleep -- it was night), when I awoke from a profoundly disturbing dream.

I was at Lost Dog, and Aaron walked up to me, singing something by the Doors. He said, "come on, let's go to your house." So we went to my house. Only, it wasn't my house. I'm not sure where it was. But Aaron said, "well, this is it." This was it.

And then, Aaron and I... ahem... began to have sex...

Uh... yeah.

I awoke, profoundly disturbed. Now, Aaron and I have known each other for damn near nine years, and have had exactly two physical encounters -- three if you count the night we went to see "Eyes Wide Shut" and drove around the entire night discussing whether or not it would be too weird for us to fuck. However, we've never actually, you know, DONE IT, and we have decided that for the two of us to fuck would mean great calamity and general chaos... or something. Moreover, it would just be too weird. It would be like playing doctor at the age of 20. It would be like telling your brother you'll show him yours if he shows you his. It would be like... general chaos and calamity.

This is not to say the thought has never crossed either of our minds. How can you HELP imagining yourself having sex with someone you've been friends with for so long? "Dude, are we ever gonna have sex?"
"Um, yeah, probably, but not right now... Dude, that'd be weird."
"Yeah, yeah it would. Probably before we die, though."
"Yeah, probably."

We made a sort-of-pact. Before we die, we've got to fuck each other. I mean, I've got a whole long list of things I ought to do with Aaron before I die, including seeing a spaceship, finding a dead body, determining whether or not ghosts exist, and taking a very long road trip, but this particular pact seemed almost sacred. "Dude, if one of us is, like, on our deathbed, then we've like, gotta fuck. Even if it would be too weird..."

It would be far too weird to go through life knowing I'd fucked Aaron. It would also be far too weird to go through the afterlife, whatever that may entail, knowing I hadn't. Hence, the pact. The sort-of-pact.

It was a profoundly disturbing dream. I woke up with my spine twisted in very unpleasant ways, and my hands clenched into fists.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The word of the evening, according to the gospel of Helena, is "eschatological."

What the fuck is that?

Eschatology is a theological term referring to the end of the world, judgement day, the apocalypse, End Times, resurrection, whatever. The end of the world, and the study thereof, although it's beyond me how people can study the end of the world when it apparently hasn't happened yet, unless I've missed something very important in the last fifteen minutes or so.

Why is that the word of the evening, Helena?

I'm not sure yet. Hopefully, by the end of this entry, I'll have made some headway into that question.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Aaron's been having a rough time as of late, with college, with temporarily dropping out of college, with work, with whatever else... I was worried. Especially after having dreamed that Aaron and I were having sex. Not that, in the dream, the sex was all that bad -- I don't think it was, although my worry that Aaron was on a ledge someplace kind of overshadowed my concern for a good fuck.

After work this evening, I decided to find Aaron and make sure he was okay. I couldn't reach him by phone, nor instant-messanger; he hadn't emailed me and his latest journal entry was a bit on the melancholy side, to say the least. So, with no other option, I strapped on my bookbag, threw an extra shirt into it, stuck a new CD into my CD-player, and began the journey from my house to Aaron's place of business, a 24-hour diner six miles from my house.

(Of course I had another option; I could have stayed home and worried, but if I have nothing else to my credit, I DO have an impeccable sense of timing, usually, and I know when it is the right time to do something that seems fucked up to the rest of the world: for instance, walking six miles to see my friend because of an erotic dream I'd had. There was no other option.)

* * * * * * * * * * *

I began the trip.

What was I feeling? Sadness? Anxiety? No, neither of those things really. I felt a strange sense of freedom, of anxiety and freedom combined. It was a sense of eschatological intensity, and what better to go with eschatological intensity than an R.E.M. CD from 1986? R.E.M., as a matter of fact, may be the most eschatologically intense band I've ever heard. At least they were during the Reagan years.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I walked. As Front Street turned into highway, I stared hard into the distance, and I sang along with my CD loudly to keep from crying.

Why was I crying?

Well, I wasn't crying. I was, however, sort of whimpering. It wasn't really a whimper of sadness, or of anxiety... But a whimper of... eschatological intensity? Maybe.

The world wasn't ending, of course. The feeling had nothing to do with the actual end of the world, the Bomb, the Rapture. It had to do with the fact that I, a young human being, was standing alone at the opening to a highway at night. And listening to R.E.M. These two things gave me an immense feeling of both dread and overwhelming liberty.

("Freedom reigns supreme!" --R.E.M.)

I whimpered because I had a destination. I whimpered because I wanted to keep walking forever, down that highway. Forever. Just keep going and going until I reached another highway and took that one. Just keep going. Keep going until I reached Santa Fe. Or Seattle. Or Vegas. Or Tulsa. Or Boston. It didn't matter where I ended up. I wouldn't END UP anywhere. I was Helena-the-Eschatological-Wonder.

It's the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine.

The root of the word eschatology is Greek for "furthest."

Is there a furthest?

At the opening to a highway, there is NEVER a furthest. Only a further. And further.

(In actuality, if I'd kept walking, I would have ended up in Greene, NY, within a few hours, and nobody in their right mind wants to go to Greene. Rather, people want to go to Greene for one of three reasons: 1. They want to buy antiques. 2. They want to visit people who live there -- although most of the people who actually live in Greene qualify as antiques 3. They want to eat at the Silo Restaurant, which I don't think is actually in Greene, although everybody seems to think it is. Whatever. Had I kept walking, I would have gotten to Greene. But I had no interest in Greene, nor did I have any interest in thinking about where I'd end up...)

I whimpered because I had to go to Aaron's diner, had to check up on my friend. Had to meet Aaron, had to make sure he was okay. Had to get a ride home, either with Aaron or with a cab. Had to write a journal entry and go to sleep. Had to set my alarm and get up for work in the morning. Had obligations. Had the weight of the world resting on me -- the weight of a small world, a minimum-wage world, a world with a mom and a bird and a boyfriend and a coffeehouse depending on me for various things, expecting certain things from me.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I might have actually said "fuck it," to absolutely everything and kept walking to Greene and beyond, had I had more than eight dollars in my pocket. Eight dollars in my pocket, a bookbag full of Norman's books and my Portishead shirt, and a CD-player with fading batteries... If I'd thought to also bring my blue notebook Diane, the money in my super-secret hiding place, my photo of David, and "Still Life with Woodpecker," I might have kept walking. It doesn't take much to keep my spirit alive.

I whimpered because Norman would be mildly pissed off that I ran off with his books. I whimpered because I promised my mom I'd come over for Thanksgiving. I whimpered because who would feed my bird? I whimpered because I had to talk to Aaron. I whimpered because the world as I know it continues to go on and on exactly as it's always gone on. Because it never ends, and it never really changes much. The biggest change in my entire life, the biggest outing, the biggest inspiration, was a six-mile walk to the Spot Diner on Upper Front Street. That's fucking depressing, and I wanted to keep fucking going. Forever.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When the world ends, I hope I'm on a highway. Maybe one out in the southwest. I hope it's night and the only perceptible sound is the rattle of trucks and the whistle of wind.

I hope by that time, I've fucked Aaron, just so I don't have to worry about that anymore.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I made it to The Spot Diner. I smelled like shit; I'd walked a fairly good pace. I changed into the Portishead shirt in the bathroom, and went to find Aaron.

Aaron was not visibly bleeding, bruised, or otherwise on death's door. He didn't look exactly happy to be alive, but he didn't look as if a ledge was imminent.

"Dude, I had this dream... You know how we said we gotta like, fuck, before we die? Well..."

"You dreamed we had sex?"

"Um... yeah."

"Dude, so did I."

"Nuh-uh..."

"Yeah... Was it good?"

"Yeah, I guess... But dude, I was WORRIED about you!"

"How'd you get here? You didn't WALK!?"

"Yeah..."

* * * * * * * * * * *

And that was that.

Aaron gave me a ride home, and went about his merry way to buy some alcohol and seduce some lesbians. Everything was back to normal, for the most part.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Save yourself! Serve yourself! World serves its own needs! Listen to your heart bleed!" --R.E.M.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Hang your collar up inside. Hang your freedom higher." --R.E.M.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives, and I decline! It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine..." --R.E.M.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I wish I had something to escape from. I wish I had something to escape to. Everything is really remarkably pleasant in my life, other than random worries about Aaron and the few others I've kept very close to my heart. I'm fairly happy. I have no reason to want to run and run and run until the end of the highway, until the end of the world.

I feel fine.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bedtime.

Love,
~Helena*

"If you don't quit moving around, I'm going to stab you in the ribs with my Eschatological Scissors of Righteousness." --Helena, in Mike's dorm room, after a LONG evening of studying for her religion class, 1998.