I know a Bonnie Raitt song about sparks flying out across "the wilderness between me and you," which is a metaphor I love, obviously, and I recently wrote a recap that used the image of sparks in at least as many ways as this episode does, so I'm saying it's impossible to extricate from this episode my own recent thoughts and obsessions, and I have no idea about the title or where the song comes in, but I do know I'm quoting this for the second time in a month: "Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upwards." It's such a strange, beautiful little image; normally you think of certainty in terms of gravity, but sparks do fly up. And Jason was born unto trouble for real, just like anybody else. I don't know, but it's from the book of Job, which is a story about pretty much the exact same thing: What if the entire world were an elaborate prank?
Jason watches -- and hears -- the sweat run down her neck, endorphins and adrenaline, water, sparks. There are certain kinds of crazy and a lot of drugs that imbue a relevance to things that they don't usually have. Things are more themselves; they have significance unto themselves, like the images on Tarot cards: The Dixie Flag. The Old Racist Bitch. The Girl With A Fan. The Sweat On Your Neck. The Feeling Of Walking. The Slow Motion. It's the first sweat and the last sweat that anybody ever sweated, in all the world it's a thing he's seen but never really seen. It runs wet, like blood, but it reminds him of sex, sweat on skin, and maybe he loves her back. Maybe he's in love with her, and always has been, but the world conspired to keep this knowledge away from him by distracting him with hobags and ADD and Alabama Thunderpussy, whatever that might be, and all the bullshit that keeps us apart, and keeps us from expressing that essential union between people, between spirits, that is divinity meeting itself, saying "Hello," and "I remember," and "I know you," in a single kiss. Or else Jason's just all fucked up on drugs.
Jason's eyes are throwing sparks as he grins wildly at Tara, and sits beside her; his glassy look falls on everything at once, beautiful and significant and powerful and good. She courteously avoids from darting a glance at his dick, which I would not be able to do if I'd been through what they've been through: How are you and your penis doing today? She asks how he's feeling, and he answers honestly: "Oh, strong." She stares at him and he grins. "Alive." The world is good and all the things of and in the world are good. He's breathing deep, without an immune system.