The Smile of a Woman

A regression into the comfortable contempt for the digitization of my thoughts has led to a neglect for this site which I am now adequately warmed up to overcome, at least for another moment or two.  Although I have all but forgotten of the site, my journal remained close to my heart and even closer to my hands.  I will continue from where I left off while I rekindle the fire within my mind which barely sustains the idea of there being someone reading these:

There are those women for whose smile, I would give a limb and more.  Reason itself advises me to cast no more than a glance toward the entire sex, but what is the counsel of reason to a man whose heart is as mine?  There is an ineffable quality found only in the smiles of certain women that stupefies reason itself and leaves me subject to the demands of my heart despite all of what philosophy has constructed within me.

A desire is instilled that is beyond the petty callings of lust (although hers, I still hear) as it is interested only in the smile and all of its aesthetic significance.  It is not long before beholding it that the smile itself becomes insufficient—the desire develops as all else and comes to want more, not of the woman, but of the self’s relation to the smile.  It becomes an intricate yet almost insipid desire for the smile as more than an entity to gaze and marvel at, but a force to possess.  The desire assumes a marvelous and delicate process of ensuring that the self alone is capable of receiving that smile by assuming the role of that alone which can produce it.  Whether it is genius or cunning that inspires what movement is necessary to assume such a position is beyond me.  I will not linger on it long because it seems to me an unconscious understanding of how to proceed and to say anything of that is, needless to say, presumptuous.

The voracious desire does not stop there since it can still yet be taken further, but here one must tread carefully for it becomes a longing for the smile in a sort of different manner: to be its source and its target allows for an understanding of its inherent appeal, that is the beauteous character accessible to man only through the smiles of such women as are capable of it, so that it may be crafted internally and its effects be accessible without the need to consult any externalities.  It is a fierce yet subtle desire to learn from woman the means to enjoy her virtue of spirit without her actual presence: can man know a greater height of independence?

However, it is all speculation and were I not so stimulated, I would likely not have taken it further than where it is presently: with her in my mind and heart as devious Eros lingers overhead, under the impression that I cannot see him and his mischievous activity.  But let him read these words if he can to see that I love him no less than I do her.

Poverty is pressing me to a corner and as I have no job to toss me a rope, I can only step back—I do not know how many steps remain before I am left with the cold, unwavering mass that cannot be overcome.  I am too sincere a fatalist to exert more than minimal effort towards anything for which I have no passion and so after applying to a few schools and institutes, I have resigned from the tedious venture for a job—I would not dare deprive fate of the room she prefers to occupy by imposing my own will!

I have told those who have asked that I do not know what I aim to do because the piece I was working on for nearly a month demanded the entirety of my mind, but I did not think it to be so true as it turned out to be—I did not say I did without believing it, I only doubted the extent to which it was true.  No sooner did I finish it (five in the morning after an exclusive ski session) than I felt myself able to consider other things, among them, what I would do with myself.  The transition from the realm of ideas to that of reality, I thank God, was a seamless one and as if the answer had been prepared without consulting me, I knew what I would do almost immediately upon consideration.

It seems I have learned from my previous stretch of indefinite roaming because there is a sort of solicitude within me I do not recall ever having.  To continue traveling with the few hundred dollars that remain to me would likely mean I either compromise myself and the time I need for my work by taking any petty job I can find, regardless of pay, just so that I can sustain myself, or return to delivering pizzas so I can set off again, which is an abhorrent prospect.  It follows that if I cannot find work here, I return to the States with what I have and look for a job elsewhere, in another country where the wages suffice for more than mere sustenance as they do here.

I chewed over the prospects available to me now of heading south to Cusco in order to see the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, east to the jungle where I may find something interesting to write about with the aid of Ayahuasca, or north to Trujillo and learn to surf, but there is a prominent indifference in my heart to all of it that renders those prospects bland and even trite.  In staying in a tent on the roof of this hostel for the last few days, I have come to realize what was suggested to me faintly in Rishikesh: my paradise consists of interesting conversations, writing, and my instrument.

Over the last few days, in my relentless striving to finish the piece, I would occupy a table and write.  No more than a page or two would be filled before someone would approach me desirous of conversation and I, naturally and joyously, would not hesitate to provide and maintain it for as long as it is willing to persist—even to write this, I had to apologetically decline an invitation to join others for a round of conversation [an aside: how that aforementioned cunning of the desire for the inherent virtue in the beautiful woman’s smile reveals itself now!  It was she who invited me and yet despite my heart, I declined; despite this familiar, nascent fixation, I let her slip away knowing without thinking about it just how effective such an approach is in fulfilling this ridiculous and precious desire] but it is not common that I decline such an opportunity.

Eventually, I return to my work and if I am not interrupted, proceed until I need a break, at which point I consult the accordion and see what it wants.  How many interesting people I’ve met in this paradise!  Besides she whose name I dare not yet write lest I catalyze the growth of this fixation, I met a Dutch man who provided me with chess games more challenging than what I have known in months and who has taken kindness so far as to invite me to visit him in Amsterdam—I never forget of such invitations and am only here now because of them—an Englishman whose understanding and knowledge of poetry served to captivate me, if only for my enjoying such discussions on forums and nowhere else until then, a Canadian woman whose kindness and ambition not once failed to make me smile in love and admiration for her, and a Swedish man I could not help but find genial and sincere as few others I have encountered and known for much longer than I knew him.  There are far more, no less significant individuals who have won my love over the last few days and who have made my time here so precious, but it is late and a prolix account is not appropriate beyond twilight.

There is much to see in this country, but I am not here to see, I am here, and everywhere else, to love.  Why continue to search for what I have found here?  I will enjoy paradise for a few days more then proceed as I find best.  I wrote a moment ago that I have learned from my previous travels, but it may not be so, or if it was how could it be that for her I would give up all this along with the limb of her or the devil’s choosing?  Adam, poor Adam, lost paradise for her but he did not know what he was at risk of losing—I know precisely how I am likely to suffer if I proceed in the correct, effective manner natural to my disposition and yet I still laugh.  For her sake and mine, I hope she can resist.


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