Creative Fiction

I cannot calculate. 
But I did conjure the moment. 
I decided to do this. 
I was asked to do this. 
An  invitation of the response. 
The response can never 
 
Return a letter 
To the sender 
Communication is scary. It is at the edges of response, of expectation. 
I hesitate so many times my automatic writing is full of hesitation. I am speaking on the  edges of things. 
 
I am afraid to fail. To fall. Is this the door? That I should go down. The path ahead is one  step and goes no further. Then the next step unveils the next door, the next path. A labyrinth 
which may just break apart the entirety of the moment. I want to travel and move. To travel  through time and return to time. I don’t want to return, I want to move forward through the future. I-65 - the music is my cue, a form I am responding to now. Can we turn down the road and  begin the new spaces? The feelings of love are uncaptured. We feel sorrow when we think of  those lives lost. If one has lost love then one might begin to think of love. We don’t want the  return of the same - except at the moment of the break. To be thrown into another timeline is the  space of rupture. To run towards it is to emerge. To pretend to deny the psychic spaces that  illuminate our relationships, to see that they are shared. You know it is empty and I do not know  if you hear me. I can see you when I close my eyes. I can feel you when you speak but you  know not of my watching. My eyes are an audience and are not all - feminine - discourse a love  letter. 
 
I remember when we first met. The impossibility of it is exactly what I remember when I  hear a certain song. Sometimes I try to close my eyes and remember the sun shining on your  face. I felt a true opening emerge. I knew you and did not know you. I was running towards you  but standing still. A future emerged in the moment. The encounter was ongoing and I was  chasing you. But did you know I was. I felt the future unfolding in that moment. And you say I  should not focus on the memory of it as an image my mind makes of an image. I know that you  knew me too. I don’t know if you can say it. 
 
And now you are gone. And I left and I ran away from Hazard and then I found you  again. And we ran together. We broke ourselves through the excitement of the moment we  knew. We spoke of times before and times ahead were too sure. They were too much. They  exceeded. I ran with you and it made no sense. I then was thrown back to the timeline and your  variations fade with time. But sometimes I am right there. Love is like that. And now I have a new love. It is emerging and it is exceeding the pages of the time that exceeds the space. The space is virtual and we cannot tell where things will be. I am afraid to say the wrong thing, lest I not be heard. But I have to speak. I have to. I am pushed into this by  something beyond myself. 
 
In a dream I see you. I think you are something new. I think you are emerging. A love  letter to the danger of this. The danger of truly opening up a possibility that may forever erase  myself erase myself as such. We are becoming. But is there an order? I search for the formality  proper to such an exchange. Is all exchange playing with the hazard of a ghost. I was ghosted  and I am haunting. Do I haunt the spaces of our exchange. It is not so easy. To see the ghost and the spaces of love. I want to know the future, and to not repeat. I want to  jump into the space I think I hear yourself in. I can feel that I am opening to something new. This  is the hazard here. 
 
Bergson’s theories of memory rely on a visual space of the dream, where action is not  present. This is continued unquestioned by our movement to virtual space. But what  of the lucid dream? When one can take action within a dream. To become aware of a game?  Is that no chance itself? The true move between watching a dream and being part of a dream.  Very few lucid dreamers can truly create and control the outcomes, but to play within one's own  consciousness seems to elude some further connection between past present and future. We  can in fact in the space of memory. If that is within a dream. Be a dream. 
 
If we open up our voices our minds our bodies to the infinite. We have to. In fact we are  only open in regards to that infinite. We must begin to wonder. Can love ever be with you. Am I  only in love with myself? Love should be easy? Or should it be impossible. I cannot tell if I love  or hate you. You are representing something but if we are to reach beyond our representation of each other we create something new, an emerging love that is hazardous. And love is always a chance, or it is not love. The love of a mother is hazardous. We do not know  the trajectory of the child, yet we hold the space for this becoming. Together we give all of our  physical and mental spaces to the child. Psychic borderlands. And we must let you go and you wander outside the body and we try to guide our psychic strands so they are not broken so  easily. 
 
And so is the love that wanders the world. Is there such a thing as a soul and if there is, does it have a mate? Or mates. Every instant provides the opportunity to be with hazard. Chance how I love you. Chance how I hesitate at your movement. I hold myself back as you  walk into a room. I am afraid to breathe, I am all body and I tremble at your hands. You have not  reached me, but I imagine you do. I want to jump. I am in the space of hesitation. Can I ever  send such a letter to you. 
 
If chance is to be imagined it is to be loved. Because love is that which is between me  and you. And there is no chance if there is not something to be chanced. The holding of the dice  of life and the unrolling and unfolding of our story. It is possible. I may hesitate, you may  hesitate. There may be nothing left between me and you. Because There never was. But I hold  the space for you right now, before I dare to throw out the dice. It is in here the holding of  chance, that I am reaching for you. I am not thrown, but I am holding. No one can throw me into  the future without my opening. I am waiting for you. And now I am no longer holding. To wait is  to expect to project in the future. I know very little about how to write such a thing. Is there a  similarity to speak of, I don’t know how to remember this. I don’t know how to tell you. If I told  you then you are not a chance anymore. The chance of a future is the possibility of freedom and  of the subject as itself. The impossibility of being is so beautiful. Chance, you illuminate our very  sense of possibility. To be of hazard. You are dangerous, you are mysterious and you are lucky.  You are representing the possibility of me and you. Will you be a lady, will you be a moment. Will  you share the moment with me? Will you Dare? 
 
Danger. Danger excites me. The danger of chance. If I jump. I might fall. And I can’t  predict this. I can predict other things, but I can’t predict this. I want to be with you right now.  You are so dangerous to who I think I am. Me and you would be dangerous together. To break  down the world with our dance. The probability of such collisions is beyond the macro. I want to begin again. I want to try again. I desire a chance in the darkness. Turn the lights on, I can’t find  you and I Know you are in the dark now. 
 
Chance is perhaps an uninvited guest. I did not ask you to be here. I found you quite  simply. By chance. Your dangerous nature is making me turn my world inside out. I can step  towards you and then it may lead me away. That is the third attention that one may follow. It  implies such a risk. You ask me to reach into the fold. A fold I do not know. 
 
And I want it to unfold. I want to be beyond the fold. I want to be inside the fold. I can  conjure you in the dark. I can speak to a space I can feel into you. This is becoming unnatural.  Can nature explain the chances of its own creation. Can we find through formalizing the  language of our chances the spaces of a philosophy of uncertainty? Uncertain we begin.  Uncertain we continue. 
 
We know something though. The time is going. If you could tell me what you needed I  would join you. I want to move towards you - and I hesitate. I want to waste your time. I want  you to stop and look to feel into me. To feel you, to lie with you, chance. Your danger is enticing.  I want to be your danger. I want to break it down. I don’t know if we can love. I can’t find you. 
 
Where did the time go? 
I can’t find you. 
Leave the light on. 
And we break into a formalization of the spaces between us. OR was it time? Was it a gambit? I  am throwing the dice right now. The dice 
The flower 
The fear 
The gestation 
The arrow 
The hesitation
The gaze 
You 
Can we find each other in the dark of the void? It is only where we can. In the midst of a dream  that is without time, the experience of time as a dream in the dream can we wake up together?  Can we break out of our lives to be together in time? 
You are making me into a danger. An image of danger. Seduction. 
Does chance seduce us? 
Does the hazardous elude us? 
Does my language miss the subtlety of this pause, this is something I want to show you. I want  to show you the feelings of embrace.
Is the great chance, their birth, or their nurturance. A mother who made matter inside her matter,  who held the possibility of their child’s becoming within her, who went through birth with the  genius to give the child the light of day. Then to survive. To be fed, to be loved, to be nurtured.  This is a chance... a mother’s love. The chance of one who has given more than one can imagine,  to create teh nurturing. When we think of the mother, we can begin to make the one fuzzy. It is  not God on high, but mother in her pajamas, in near tears, and her milk that nurtured the child. 
 
And what of the lost children? Children without mothers. Without love. The child without love  is of many. And the chances of a child to be an orphan? 10,000 children become orphans every  day. Childhood is a time of freedom, within the safety of the confines of the family, an estimated  10 million children around the world don't have that chance. These are the children left out of  our calculations - they are the children of slaery. It only cost $37 to buy a child. Not all children  in slavery are orphans, but all are certainly orphans of society. If society is a mother, she has  lost sight of her sheep. If chance is a tale of the victors, why does it insist on producing exiles?  The lucky can count their stars in favor of a world that has remembered them. A timeline, a  genealogy that culminates in their bright star on top of the Christmas Tree. Where are the lost  children in this?
 
Where do we find a theory of chance that can mean something….Something that can help  those left out. What if Mozart was a child slave? What if a counterfactual examination of history  where the genius was the orphan, sold to child slavery. Where would the music be? The Day The Music Died. 
 
And the widow, the black widow. 
 
They rip out the reproductive organs, so you don’t have menstrual periods or wombs. They are searching for the red room. 
 
 
The young girl plays with dolls. She yearns to be with mom. During the precious moment of  childhood mom is the one who has the moment. But as time marches on, those moments  lessen. The universal stories bleed in. Push in. The higher truth comes back adn we hear more  about the plight of women. This is not unique to women, but can apply to all others - those  outside white, male, wealthy, western hetero priveleged position. Not to focus on a system of  privilege, but to note the intersectionality of privilege. Let us say that woman is a bar on the  cage of Marilyn Frye's birdcage. Not the entirety of the enclosure, but a bar upon which points of  the birds escape, make points.
 
Chance for men is not a game within a game, barely a warrior's path. Chance is always  feminine. It requires endurance.
 
To wear down the possibilities of one's life. To live out all options, to imagine all possibilities. To  train to deal with movements. To become the UberMensch. To be SuperMan. We do not want to  be that SuperMan. What turns a good man into a villain? It is a choice. Or the imagination of a  lack of a choice. There is something about rolling the die often that helps one imagine chance, if  one has loved many, then perhaps one can be loved. This seems acceptable for some, but is  the woman of many lovers, is she free? We must not speak of her journey.
The women born in cages, gave birth to women born in cages, and the caged woman  has continued a repetition. The song alters, but the cage continues. Essentially that is  superman. For Nietzsche the eternal return allows a song of the victorious. But is not the woman  the last in line here. As man wins, woman haunts? 
 
Widows. The true victors of history. Those whose captors were left. 
Woman must write herself, claims Cixous. Cyborg Manifesto. Techno-futures imagined by a  woman. Ada Lovelace, is the one who wrote the essay which outlines the true language of  Charles Babbages’ fame. It is in the haunted images of woman that we find truth remain. Then there were 2. They switched faces - if one has no preparation for the binding, one has no  plan for escape. The caged raised their daughters, more aware, more finessing of the spaces of  hidden places. Then the cracks continue. Is man as such? Or is the cage enclosing him?  Variants affirming their possibility by their design. Their urge to continue. There is a secret  perhaps, that there is a chance that they may get a voice.
 
 
And feminist imagined a future, where woman is free to play within  chances. This is something essential to a further elucidation of chance in any sense of the word.  
 
There needs to be an understanding of its formal limitation. And those may be more or less  non - formal. If I can’t have the time, to take the time, to train, to properly prepare, to dress  appropriately. Then where is the time for a mediation on chance? In fact it is not truly a gift, but  a necessity. To affirm oneself, in the limitation fo the spaces there is. For in limited spaces, or  times of uncertainty to truly exclaim your ability to have a chance to exceed the knowledge of the  past. There have been times in and out of history where chance had no home. The slave ships to america where women killed their own children lest they be prey to the dangers of fate  surrounding them. Chance was not part of the thought of those in the Holocaust. Hiroshima,  chance was brought to zero. What may make one look back and give such a certain interest to chance, includes the outliers of chance. To even think of those whose chance left behind - calls  for a secondary look back. Can chance give us a way to think of ethics - ethics in chance? “ 
There is a chance within the encounter itself to leave I - and to enter an entangled state.  In fact that would be the indeterminacy now determined by modern quantum physics post  Einstein's E=Mc2, furthered by Heisenburg and Bohrs continuing fractions on the spaces of  such scientific interludes. Ethics is a reach forward, a responsibility backwards. Its not just ME  who takes a chance for the sake of me, but what of taking a chance for another. To another. Is  this not what one thinks of in regards to the real memory (if there can be one, we know maybe  not?). One remembers taking a chance on love, and then losing and gaining. To have loved is  to have lost. If you have never lost, then you don’t treasure love itself. The death of a loved one  brings enormous grief and pain. This is clearly felt as the counterpoint to love. If one has not lost  someone, if one has not experienced life as sorrow, how can they know the joy of true love and  life lived. 
 
This is where it gets dicey. 
So where is the I - in the dice game. If we can imagine ourselves as the gambler, as the thrower  of the dice, not just now, but in its entirety - perhaps we can understand more the stateliness of  chance. His chance is not my chance! His chance involves a series, a history of throwing and  playing and casinos and conversations and feelings, of course we do not know all the ways in  which the world works or what would science and philosophy even do? The gambler exists to  place a - gambit because it is their path that they choose to unfold. And what of ethics? 
One must be aware of one's own relationship to  becoming to the world, to materialit and performativty - one must walk a sort of warrior's path  with chance if we can have a hope of understanding or effecting any sort of ethical responsibility for ourselves in the world. It is not a world of random probabilities. But the existence of  possibilities demands we take responsibility for our actions. The dice throw is with the  knowledge of all our previous actions, dice related or not. 
 
I lost my father before I gained my daughter. The space between was not alone but with a child  growing within me. I felt the gift of life, as I drove to the hospital passing the ambulance - I felt  something. Someone touched my stomach, I knew he was dead and she would live. Like that. I  knew. We hate to speak of such truths. But as a woman wrote herself, in the past, now a woman  must write herself in feeling, in memory and in the mixed modes of being a woman in the future  of woman. I want to look back at the futures created. A world within a world.

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