Back Into My Hair Shirt

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.

I Prefer Erosion

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.

The Loner’s Half-Life

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.

It’s Coming Back to Me

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.

Almost Comfortable

November 16, 2012 § Leave a comment

It’s easy enough living alone, but I’m not after convenience. It’s easy to do nothing about it, to insulate my hermitage with books and movies and music, to seal in the desperation that erodes my patience. Eventually, I will love myself, but I don’t know if I can wait that long for someone to love me. (Who else is saying that? I’m not the first.) Or am I waiting on my own ability to love someone else? waiting is waiting. It’s still inaction. What action’s to be taken? Desperation motivates but offers tricks for ideas. I don’t do tricks. There’s nothing to be gained fooling someone; I’m the guinea pig I proved that on. Between patience and desperation is the life I live. It’s not the happiest of media, but it’s easy, and it’s almost comfortable.

Inextinguishable

November 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

For the most part, I got what I deserved. The rest, I can’t define. The recipe for humble pie. Bitterness is not an ingredient. I can’t believe my lies to myself. I can’t muster the mental legerdemaine to fool myself–but how would I know? There are always more lies. They are the skin that covers me, but with each moult I feel more protected. Admitting mistakes is easier than hiding from them with one ruse after another. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve, but I’m not privvy to them. They’ll let me know when they happen: I can only put out the fire, not blow out the match. I can complain, but I can’t convince myself I have a complaint.

All I Meet Are Cinderellas

November 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

I used to call it the Cinderella Complex. I applied it to one person, and bitterly. I couldn’t understand the rejection; I hadn’t been given a chance. But Cinderella didn’t sit around waiting for Prince Charming and had no suitors to reject. She didn’t pretend at martyrdom to her drudgery or claim an exclusive wisdom that instantly validated her judgements. She was unique. No one else will wear the glass slipper. Prince Charming is taken for Ever After, and there was ever only one of him. None of this knowwledge does me any good. I know I’m not Prince Charming, but all I meet are Cinderellas.

Where Am I?

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