December 21, 2012 § 8 Comments
Bitterness has been good copy for me over the years, but it’s hardly more than shtick by now. How long has it been? The bitterness was real for a long time, but it’s been a long time since. It clings like nostalgia. It always has. I’ve always let it. It shaped my life around a black heart. My heart is no longer black. Pride drove the obsession; bitterness, the delusion; both of them, the expression. And that was the drug that ramped up my paranoia. I don’t need the drug anymore. I have found another that has no need for pride and bitterness. It’s only hope. It’s only what’s left of the truth.
December 18, 2012 § Leave a comment
How does a man have self-esteem when he’s barely allowed to admit that his body contains testerone? “Vanity” and “positive self-image” have been assigned as the male and female definitions of the same thing. Woman, though, musn’t admit a desire or need for man. So, everyone’s alone: the man tired of rejection and the woman who won’t relinquish the first-right to reject. He’s gone from being what he thinks she wants to what he knows he is, but still hopes it’s what she wants. (The faith weakens, but it never dies.) He stops pursuing and waits for her to stop waiting for him. So, they’re both alone. Who’s wait is more significant? Less impatient? Who concedes the need?
December 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
Neither a fool nor a revisionist be. Who am I now to judge what I’d been then? I can’t say I’d not been in love, only that I had been so with the wrong woman. I can’t, either call myself a fool for not having known, but pride will call me names to dissemble from its pain and deny I’d been in love. Why is it so easy to be embarrassed and ashamed? What martydon is being served? What apologies are left? And whose forgiveness is left to ask for? But moving on won’t be accomplished so pragmatically. What I know and how I feel are each a hand of a different body. Neither nor both can affect a solution. In the face of that impotence, it’s easier to ignore the impulse to effort; if the restraint is as stressful as the effort, it is at least more effective. Just a theory. What would I know?
December 7, 2012 § 1 Comment
The man I am, somewhere in me, is the man I was taught by feminism to be ashamed of, yet the same man the same people tell me I have to be to attract them. How can I be anything at all and expect to get what I need? How can what I am measure up to an ideal? Cinderella will starve for want of cake. The man who is expected to do all the pursuing is the person upon whom all of the rejection is heaped and whose emotional skin is thickened to deadness. That’s what control gets you: a dispirited simulacrum of your ideal; a stale, tasteless cake. Is that still to be coveted over fresh bread?
December 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
Rules. Whose? Why not mine? The rules I can’t follow are rules I have to change, fit to me. It won’t work the other way round. Confidence makes the rules mine to make, mine to play. Fun. Whatever I get having fun is worth having. Only my rules know me. Why inexpertly interpret someone else’s handbook? For how much longer do I misapply someone else’s tricks? Haven’t I always eschewed tricks? Don’t fake it to make it; just make it! Tricks are fake, failed adaptations. As a diet is to eating. Know yourself and your needs, and you can trust your imagination to get them: Strategy for the honest.
November 30, 2012 § Leave a comment
Self-created penance—guilt: Is it all that’s in the way? The plunge is a scary thing, but if I get too comfortable alone—well, I can’t imagine that. And that’s the problem: I enjoy my time at home, but staying there is too easy, and my life is not wholly contained in my apartment. What portion’s on the outside? More every day. What it looks like, I haven’t the foggiest. I thought I would feel differently, but desperation and impatience, even together, can’t calm the fear of actually going on a date. When do I say “I don’t have a car?” When does it become dishonest not to? When you know it’s a dealbreaker and could thin the herd to you by saying it. Just another excuse to fall back on Herself and into my hair shirt.
November 27, 2012 § Leave a comment
Love again. On and off again. The pendulum swings. Is it possible? or not? Companion? or lover? Yes. After that, what? I fear fixation. How can I not show what I want? Why should I not? To preclude rejection. Rejection is a negative expectation and self-fulfilling. I don’t trust my skin; most of the callous has worn off. For all I know, I’m ready, but for the confidence. Want, hope, fear. Do I deserve it? My call. Am I not perfect yet? I’m short two things I know yet can’t admit: The brick and mortar of delusion would crumble. I prefer erosion.
November 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
(To the tune of Depeche Mode’s Violator)
In lieu of companionship: domestication. Finding comfort at home. Sanctuary is comforting, is there when you get home. Nothing you talk to there talks back, though–not intelligibly. TV is not a conversation. Neither is a cat. Chocolate’s not sex (depending on the brand and the cacao content). But we make do. The job doesn’t come through: Come home and eat whatever the hell you feel like, catch The Simpsons instead of the news, try to laugh till bedtime, and hope to fall asleep before getting horny and/or lonely–unconscious before you remember what’s missing: A lifestyle that’s almost a life.
November 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
(To the tune of “I Can’t Stand It” by the Chambers Brothers.)
The associations abound and are unavoidable. They abound because I don’t allow myself to avoid them. After all, I created them, as I did the grudge of their presence. I created the entire drama from my own exacting specifications. If I didn’t always know what my actions had set in motion, I knew I’d get a story out of it. The blueprint was subject to perpetual revision, yet I could never figure out how to attach the happy ending. So it’s the association I try to make happy, which amounts, simply, to allowing them to be what they were. Nothing abouty my association with Herself was unhappy before she rejected me. But it wasn’t happy, either, living on hope and adrenaline, every movement a leap in a dance around a motionless partner, enacting the flight of my fancy. The story lived to be near her, died trying to bring her closer. I had forgotten nothing but the happiness. It’s coming back to me.