The Last Station

Wow.

I was the Countess.

In the panic stricken time leading up to this, I felt every terror the Countess felt as she watched her husband turn away from her,listening to Chertkov and all the Tolstoyans who believed him to be a messiah, a buddha.

There are differences in our details, but we were sisters in fear. Our heart's dearest companion was turning away to find something more than we are/were/could be.

Part of the way I "do poly" is to ask "Are you getting your needs met?" If the need that is not getting met is something I can provide if I know the need exists, I will do it. If it is something I am not capable of providing, I will do what I can to help my partner find that thing.

But if what he needed was not-me, was Everything, how could I possibly fit into that.

And, for the Countess, he was Everything. How devastating to find that Everything rejects you. That your Universe find you insignificant. Your fear, your love, inconsequential.

At some point, I asked Joe, "Where does your wife fit?" And, as Tolstoy ignored the Countess' fear and confusion because it was inconsequential to his understanding, he ignored me.

I Googled "Buddhas' wife". He was an asshole to her. Her fear didn't matter. He was out of it and that shit was insignificant. Less than a dust mote. She sent their child to him to ask for his birthright and Buddha made the child a monk. What else is the birthright of the Universe?

So, Maya lost her husband and her son.

Countess. Maya.

I recognize that pit of fear. I know that story. The Singularity isn't as varied as we might think, I think.

And those characters didn't have anyone to tell them that it's OK to let go. Because, it was so obvious, it wasn't worth bothering with. Because that wasn't their script.

I wish I could give them a hug and tell them it's gonna be OK.

I suspect they wouldn't believe me, either.