On Twoness and Endings

Throughout my life, I have unknowingly gone through motions in a duet. I was always coupled, not in the romantic sense, just deeply intertwined with one specific person. It was nice to do things in twos. Perhaps It was the comfortability, knowing that someone else wanted to do those things that I was interested in, too. Perhaps it was the fact that my parents stayed together despite seemingly everyone else’s getting divorced, or maybe that I was the second of two children, always following in the footsteps of my brother.  Whatever it was, when I was in those pairs it was a central part of who I am. A slippage between who I was and they were. Play between where we fit in closely, nicely, neatly, and where we drifted apart. Two meant home. 

But these units weren’t always stable, and as I changed my physical homes, the homes I found in these pairs began couldn’t seem to handle the shift. And while it might have been easier to allow these structures to deteriorate with ease, I resisted the change, tried to force us together like a kid would with the wrong poles of magnets. Both times (it happened twice) instead of a crumble, it ended in eruption. Both times (it happened twice) I found myself alone, with more empty space than I could fathom. 

There were ways our magnetism kept us together. It wasn’t like we were really apart.  Knocking on the doors of one anothers dreams, constantly afraid, and sometimes hopeful, that I would run into them. It was terrible. In the wake of this absence, I felt more hollow than ever before, but in a constant companionship with this hideous ghost of elected memories. A whole person lost-- a body made entirely in  terms of definition, in terms of remembrance.

 I carried these people alongside, or rather, inside of me wherever I went. My chiropractor even told me that someone was living in my sternum.  I tried to avert from it, tried to make work about something else, tried to just be done. But I couldn’t let it go: this absence followed me. It was even more present than when I was intertwined with those people. Their movement from me pulled me in closer to them, and farther from myself. EPILOGUE is really just a finally resting place. It is the latest iteration of the duets I have been making since childhood. I wanted to find ways for Rodney and I to be together. To be an amorphous shape, nuzzling into weight shares where, had the other body not softened or supported, one of us would fall. All the moments of this work, even when I am solitary, are impossible without a second person. While it at times felt very lonesome, it is inhabited by all the people I have shared my life with. In some ways I am being very selfish. By making this work, I am thrusting this absence and loss into reality instead of letting it live in my body. It now exists alongside me. I hold its hand.