November 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
I lapse. I turn to fancy. But Fancy looks like Herself. She’s become the face of what I want, little more, though the face still plucks and twangs. No indignation, little embarrassment or shame, but more than enough regret. And those get smaller. Hope is the last thing to go. It can hang around for as long as it wants. It feels good. I don’t have to take it seriously. Hope can stay. It doesn’t have to be for Herself, but when the right one of her comes along, I want to be receptive. Bitterness wears thin, is dispiriting. What’s the point? Who’s to blame, anymore? I’ll take it but don’t nail me up with it: I am no longer that person. Not all of it, anyway. I’ll always be some of it. I don’t want perfection; I want my perfection, the kind with an occasional mistake for the sakes of humility and education.
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Permission to be happy struggles against a habit of bitterness and blame; acceptance against judgment. Who we ware against who we are. The struggle is in the choosing. Or in allowing there to be no choice. Giving in. Having faith, even that there is something to have faith in. Or losing the faith we have. Do we need a faith? or faith? What can we afford to take for granted? What will come to our rescue? Irony and cynicism slobber under the tightrope, but let ’em go hungry while other passions consume us in a more comforting fire.
October 19, 2012 § 2 Comments
Is my gaze on a woman tyrannical? Knowing what I mean by it, I shouldn’t have to ask the question, but I ask because I am not, apparently, allowed to judge. Am I looking upon her with appreciation or aggression? Perception trumps intent. What she sees is what I intend. I’d better not look. I’d better not even want to look. Who knows into what depths my lascivious intentions can be followed. Perception is the tyranny here in the Blame Age. My gaze injects her with fear. My gait, my stance–my very being!–how menacing they must be! How dare I! What am I? Some kind of monster? I’m sorry for both of us. I’ll retire to my manacles in the garret and allow you the run of the castle. Which one of us will be lonelier?
January 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
It’s my fault I work in a library. It’s what I wanted. It’s not my fault I fell in love there, with a coworker, though I wanted that, too. If it was just a fixation after all, then I guess I could be blamed. Herself leaving had something to do with me, too, and as I doubt she would give me the credit for it that my malicious side would claim, we’ll call it blame and leave it at that. I was never one of the Golden Ones, with the work ethic of an automaton and timidity of a virgin whore–the kind of employee a boss hardly has to throw his weight against to intimidate–so it was just a matter of time before I pissed off someone. Who knew that love would be that deadly straw? Maybe me, if I’d had a thought of what a public announcement of my feelings would mean to her. My fault.