To The Invisible Woman (first letter)

No one recognizes or remembers you, but I know you’re out there.  There must be more to existence than will ever meet my eyes.

There has to be.

Light reforms through your molecular structure.  Whatever you touch rejoins the ether.  I wonder if you’re watching as I type.
You’ve never been modelled, mapped or marked as far as I can tell.    How close are you now?  No one possesses you.  Your desires are your own, for better or worse.
Seeing is not believing.  You’ve known this better than anyone, better than me.  I’ve never experienced what you’ve experienced or endured what you’ve endured.  I know I’m not invisible.
You don’t use signifiers.  You exist as a bifurication to be accepted in good faith (or not).  There’s a referent (you out there, unseen in the world) and a signified (my imaginings alone qualify for this).  You defy transmission.
Your being is never officially acknowledged.  You’d cease to exist if something like that ever happened.  You survive despite culture and because of it too.  Nothing is cancelled out.
You’re the unseen personification of deviancy and the possible. You realize their persistence.
You’re an undetectable event horizon (thwarting all claims of your eventual subjugation).
You remain intractable despite ideas of linearity, progression, dialectical process, history…
The world as it is would be intolerable if I could suddenly see you now.
You’re a renegade that I’ll never turn in.  I promise.  I don’t know how to talk about you anyway.  I could never describe you adequately to the authorities.
You keep stealing away my presuppositions.
You’re invulnerable to concepts.
Is there a specific causality to your being in all of this?  Please tap me on the shoulder and give me a clue.
Are you unwittingly antagonizing the polarities of the visible?
There’s never been an image you’ve tried to live up to.
There’s never anything to look at for comparison.
Here I am writing to you as if I can tell you all about yourself, but your manner and breadth of understanding are so far beyond anything I know about.
It can seem as if you have me writing to myself, but I really don’t know what you have or don’t have.
There’s so much I can’t see or speak to, and besides, I really have no idea most of the time what I’m looking at anyway.
I pretend you’re my mirror and that we’re both inexplicable.  I want to believe I have your powers (the powers I imagine you to have).  I hope I won’t be contained by the socially necessitated (the corpus, the archive, the law, the named, the theorized).
Nobody affirms you and it’s encouraging.  There’s more to you than will ever meet their eyes.

There has to be.

 

jeremy