The Chooser Doesn’t Care

September 28, 2012 § Leave a comment

If the woman does the choosing, the yessing and noing, what do I have to be to be chosen? What compromise to my character and/or lifestyle? Or, how long will it take to wait out my options down to one? I don’t want to wait out my sex drive. It’s hard enough, moving it lower in my priorities. If I wanted a younger woman (and she wanted me), I wouldn’t whine about a sex life. I like women my age, but I am an impractical option to them as long as sex is important to me. If I were at least a carpenter or plumber, I’d be allowed to hang around. Are women who have never had gratifying sex (and for whom men would be their preferred partners) simply waiting out the male sex drove to winnow out a “companion”? I know sex doesn’t last forever, but while it lasts I’d like to put it to good use–that is, have it with someone who feels the same way. But it’s not my choice and the chooser doesn’t care.


He’s Looking Elsewhere

September 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Whatever I am as a man, I am as me. I am not a member of that collective snottily labeled “Men!” No man is. There is no playing field leveled by applying that label, just sexist ignorance in a smaller jackboot. It’s easy to judge by the standards I had no choice but to learn growing up. Falling short of your standards does not make me the standard of your failed relationships with men. If you expect anything of me, expect the good. Cynicism, that snide insecurity, is a shield from fear and a shelter for loneliness. Can you really believe all men are alike? Then stop hoping to get the one you want. He’s looking elsewhere.

My Self or No One At All?

September 21, 2012 § 2 Comments

What a mess, this life. To have so much but to be ungrateful for want of what I don’t and angry with impatience and frustration at its elusiveness. Where is the progress within this recursive nightmare of conscious striving against unconscious knowledge? One of them must give up. Neither can: One has good reason, the other indigenous dominion. Cooperation? Chatter crossing chatter, layer upon layer, louder and louder. Amidst this, how does one appreciate life? Were these warring factions but a package, I would wrap them in lead and throw them in the ocean. Were they tumors, I would cut them out and simply be what’s left. I couldn’t complain then; I would be incapable. Would I be incapacitated, as well? Would I be left with ignorance or acceptance? my self or no one at all?

It’s Giving Up

September 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

Is all of the love one seeks love for oneself? Is the end of seeking it from another the end of the search? We end the search when we’ve found it or have given up hope of finding it. In between is the torture. Some of us are more ready than others to give up the torture. Some of us have done enough searching to conclude that the point of diminishing returns is long past and cannot possibly be redeemed. At least it’s something final to believe, one less thing to bother with. But that no one can complete us is no good reason to accept aloneness. “Complete” or not, we are not meant to be alone, but to share ourselves, and to partake of others’ sharing. Searching is trying to share. Not-finding is not-sharing, but keeping is not completing. It’s giving up.

The Nakedest Burden

September 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

In order to absolve irony of the dictatorship of my fate and the responsibility of my actions, I have had to slough off cynicism as well. Cynicism is to self-pity as arrogance is to low self-esteem: a shield from and hyperbolic simulacrum of the reality created by a hatred and jealousy of all we want that we feel inadequate to attain. Is it better to pretend we don’t want it than to grovel after it? Does pride have to go, too? until all that’s left is self-responsibility, the nakedest burden? No one made me unable to tell her what I needed to tell her when it needed telling. No one made me write that email or send those flowers or scroll those words across my computer screen. Did she have anything to do with the way I felt about her?

He Doesn’t Stand a Chance

September 11, 2012 § 2 Comments

Did you ever call a peacock narcissistic? mutter “Creep!” as you showed your back to him? There is no difference between narcissism and the mating dance. He’s got to be seen or, one less species to ward. If the aloof loner gets all the action (and, believe me, he doesn’t) then we’re making for a wussy society. If the hen ignores the cock, she has her reasons–is she less than impressed with his display, doesn’t understand his dance, or just plain doesn’t notice–whose loss is it? My feathers were camo to Herself. I still don’t know what could have gotten her attention. Why I didn’t move on to the next hen, I know too well. I have been called a creep, and it hurts. And it hurts to hear other men described that way. Men who were, to the woman so naming them, simply out of their league; who are doing what society and women expect them to do without instruction. Who the hell knows what dance to dance or what feathers to wear? Under these circumstances, it’s a cinch to fail and unfair to be judged. That man is a creep because you are afraid of him. He is what you have made him. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Heaven’s Not In It

September 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Compulsion to challenge myself challenges my capacity to fulfill the challenge. And so it goes ’round: Life as irony’s toy. I’m sorry I even acknowledged that, though irony hasn’t the sway it once had; and absent it, the void fills with anger and shame over its manipulation, which I fully sanctioned then. I am not that cynic now. The wounds are laid bare. That they are self-inflicted makes them no less painful. I won’t presume to adjudge the pain I inflicted upon Herself, feeling she would proscribe it as overfamiliarity. Already, I have overpresumed. Incessantly, I ask her forgiveness; incessantly I disallow myself the presumption that she would give it. Absolution is not really what I want–or not all that I want. Once she has forgiven me, I want her to love me. This is my purgatory, if not my hell. Heaven’s not in it.

Where Am I?

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