'Reflections on a Prolonged Episode of Suicidality', by D.M. Rice
I
It was cruelty , that was the motivation : a desire to abhor so completely that my very being
might be subsumed in the fury.
To punish the veneer of stasis by subversive performance––
and, by opposing, end it .
Making a martyr of no matter . But is it righteous?
Is not the literary mind
, in sum , defiant ?
Again , to question justice and bear joy , in this excitable algorithmic
repetition between the scenes :
walking as by sleep to say beginning
, and on one side my mother
, and you on the other
, sweeping me away into familiarity
:
a future where you’re trying out a moustache and behind my incredulous smile
kiss you before we go to shower , and love the changes
that your body’s made ,
by other hands and those you’ve made yourself –– the rings
we’ve exchanged
and conversations had to make it so
, and wanting to be there
to see Edinburgh , muted sunset hotel walls
where we keep our privacy .
Maybe it is newtonian logic , the purging rage
staved off against the equivalent
in love .
This brings to mind the adage by Dr. King
: a riot is the language of the unheard.
So Deleuze and Guattari speak of dreaming
in a ‘minor’ language
, when today we may speak of the ‘language
of the minority.’
Battered each moment
the whips and scorns of time
, the proud man’s contumely
, the spurns of impatient
merit
that we , unworthy , put to pen
II
It was just –– the circumstances placed tension
on the crux of my identity : as a doctor (PhD)
, in terms of material survival
, in terms of family and the world
that’s still at large
––the teutonic cultural weight
of pulling apart a bloody limb
in retaliation
––and to acknowledge that the fantasy
of power
was not unidirectional , and that the proletariat
, or
, if you rather
, the academic precariat
, has more power than is narratively assigned
to them
==> a strike , or denigration
the hook dug sharp
pains
into
being
;
even still I lost
no love from you
but weighed it closely
in mind ,
wanting to stay
the same
despite the insistence
of
f l u c t u a t i o n
in the s e c o n d o r d e r
, not for you to feel l e s s l o v e d
, or i n s u f f i c i e n t
as my partner
, or inadequately taken care of––
water lily
floating on a still
current , open
to the falling rain .
III
I made a mistake.
Fallen for a job scam and put in my two weeks at first notice.
I had been experiencing frustrations , being tasked with greater responsibility without being offered better pay , plus the usual , recurring summer blues.
It might have happened to anyone, I suppose.
Or maybe I’m unusually susceptible.
I was once taken pretty far by a scam where someone claimed to be my bank.
It had been from an authentic number and everything , a real uncanny experience.
But I told myself that I only fell for it because I was likewise emotionally compromised , rejected in reaching out to an ex in a time of great need.
Maybe scammers have a truffle pig sense that allows them to find those actively suffering.
Today was supposed to be my last day, but I couldn’t face it.
A great pain exhausted me.
On top of other triggers, the replacement I was training (a retired senior manager) said something that really upset me.
She started a story about someone she knew in a parallel situation to mine, somehow we got there while discussing property ownership (previously she’d mentioned that she’d owned 100 acres––which isn’t what upset me, though it did bewilder me a bit) ; anyway, this person had something to say about not wanting to start at 40 grand with her degree , but you needed experience––I cut her off.
’You shouldn’t say things like that to people’ was most of my response.
But also, why say anything that knowingly might upset someone in those circumstances?
This had been her preface: ‘You might not like this…’ or something to that effect.
Why keep going from there?
What’s worse, or another layer in my melancholy, is that I overlooked the VP bad-mouthing the very person saying this on a phone call I had overheard with my mother.
It was a compounded betrayal: the loyalty to the managerial class outweighed any solidarity that might have existed between us , and it shattered an already uneasy dynamic.
So I texted that I was unwell (true) , and that I couldn’t come in.
My PTO was threatened, but that threat had been rescinded if I came in next week, and the part time gig I had been promised is also under threat.
If that sounds stressful, it’s because it is.
As it stands, I am still processing.
IV
By the time I came up
for air the weightless
exasperated feeling was
a b s t r a c t i o n
––
San Francisco like a guillotine
for
the
non -conformist
class
;
and I
am tired
of fighting
.
I refused the part - time gig
, on account of pride , and kept
my flat near the office
, fell into my side work
until something stuck
, precluding pride or shame
, but providing the space to exercise
my judgment .
Now I might do it , pat
and so I am revenged ,
but cannot triumph o’er
the will to being , even in its dialectical negation
, suffuse with circumstances piling up
, fortune favoring the present day
, my words fly up
, my thoughts rise from below
words without thoughts
that only poets know.
D.M. Rice is the co-editor-in-chief of Sybil Journal. Their debut collection, Moby Pussy, is available here.