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?
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.
September 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
That we never lived prevents me from killing us. That I have nothing of Herself prevents me from getting rid of it. I create the conflicts, pick the fights. Absent foes, I am stuffing pillowcase effigies to stab until the peanuts run out, killing nothing, dissipating no anger–solving nothing. I am nothing more than frustrated with narcissism: I can’t enjoy it. I haven’t given myself permission to embrace the things I love and get rid of what I don’t need, instead of whingeing about how I can’t shake her, when I know I don’t want to. Why would I want to? As I fight myself, she has become more real, more human. That’s what I want, but I’m too used to self-pity. I’ll be done flagellating when I’m down to a cat-o-two-tails. I wanted to show her what I loved. I couldn’t, and I judged those things useless. If I couldn’t read, watch or listen to something because she does or might like it, then why have it? Because I still like it, and if she comes attached to it, I have to like her, too. Why fight that? The only bad memories I had were of my self-rue-ination. Head or heart: Which played the bigger trick on the other?
August 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
“…Like that!” still rings in my ears. Herself did not like being the co-star of my fantasies (or the target of my tirades). Or letting the world read them. “I don’t like you writing about me…like that!” and I knew what a fool I’d been–a child in a room of adults, playing by the only rules I knew, and alone. It had not been a game to anyone but me. I am not ashamed of the fantasies. It calmed me to imagine us on her sofa in pajamas, her leaning back on my chest, watching British sitcoms. Was that enough to have offended her? or did it take my mind’s hands gliding ove her body to embarrass and enrage her? How real does a fantasy have to appear to someone before it’s real enough to be offensible? But these don’t seem important questions. Herself didn’t need a reason to be offended, and I didn’t need to know where the line was to keep from crossing it. The times I did so I did brazenly. But the line I crossed with the flowers was invisible to me, not painted by a code of ethics in the recognizable hues of danger long before I’d reached it to consider crossing it, but striped behind me as I stared into the dark blue eyes of angry disdain pushing me backwards over it.
March 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
The flowers were to apologize for the email. It was a desperate impulse to which I gave no pause or distraction. The words on the tri-folded, stapled sheet of copier paper with my name handwritten on it revealed how little we understood each other, but Herself got this right: I’d written a “bitter, mean-spirited” email. More words were not going to fix this. I needed a gesture. Flowers would not undo anything, but I had hopes that they would begin a calm dialogue toward reconciliation. She told me otherwise with a face nearly as mean as any words I’d written about her–a haughty chill laughing down at me. The yellow bouquet stood above and behind her shoulder on a raised counter, looking more a prisoner than an ambassador of hope. She appeared to be mocking me. I was confused. I remained confused, then I became angry. She had not read the card or taken the flowers to her desk. Beyond that mocking glare, she did not acknowledge the flowers to me. From confused to angry took less than two hours, when I snatched up the bouquet and stuffed it in the nearest waste basket. I wish now I had made a bigger gesture of it. The screensaver was not the compensation I had hoped for.