What’s Left of the Truth

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.

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.

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.

Application for Martyrdom

August 28, 2012 § Leave a comment

I have a lot to apologize for, some more for which I won’t, none of which I feel I am allowed to. More, I need to be forgiven. My last apology was not accepted. I have been punished for long enough over that. Not true–I’m enjoying it. This whole thing has been an application for martyrdom. Cupid can arrow me through the palms. Cue the agony, countdown to ecstasy. Herself is the cottage industry in my head. It’s taking too long to turn her into a symbol, because I can’t get over her humanness. I rue it and I embrace it. She is my muse only perversely: I don’t believe a muse can be reluctant any more than I can believe love is unrequited. What is someone who doesn’t love me but exactly that? What is what I thought was love? If I was in love, I wasn’t sharing it very well. Would it, then, not have been love? Hm. I was ready to believe I was in love. All I lacked was a willing partner. I didn’t let that stop me.

New Each Day?

August 17, 2012 § 1 Comment

Life is an experiment made up of smaller experiments, a grope for formulas–for love, happiness, peace of mind, good sex. I thought I was creative, but I’m a scientist. Is scrutiny my life? Am I finding my self or creating it? Such imagination it takes to delude oneself! Finding is to accepting as creating is to deluding. But I change every day. I’m under a constant barrage of tiny, new experiences. It’s better to draw the outline and fill it in as I go than to try to complete the picture each day.

A Tux and a Coma

May 8, 2012 § 3 Comments

The stillpoint has always eluded me. If I’ve ever been in a moment it was too brief for me to notice. There is never a time when the thoughts aren’t layered over the here and now like a clear contact paper and moving the reality to a blurry background. It’s exhausting and more than annoying, with my mind inexpertly creating the reality before me. It’s a life without peace of mind or soul. In my twenties, when my responsibilities included nothing more than work and my daily bread, I studied zen, but came only to understand it, not to live it (the perfect embodiment of any book about zen): I could only talk the talk–a shabby pretense of serenity. I could no more then than now talk myself out of my loneliness or convince myself that all I had to do was let “it” happen. How can I believe in any of that? If it’s true, put me in a tux and a coma and wake me when the love of my life shows up.

In There Somewhere Is Self-Forgiveness

May 1, 2012 § 2 Comments

Herself wasn’t what I had hoped, whatever that was. Hope jumped into the confusion and marshalled the minions to subdue reality while my mind replaced it. I wanted someone to care about me. She was not that someone, though I would not let myself believe it, as if she were my last hope, the last woman in the kingdom on whose foot to try the glass slipper. But I was a beastly prince. I had never invested so much of myself in another and never been returned a bigger fool. I couldn’t imagine a greater unfairness. I determined to exact justice from her and made myself the bigger fool and the most beastly prince until she left me with no one to hang my delusions upon. Sifting through them as through Charles Foster Kane’s treasures is a penance but moreso a responsibility–to myself if not to her. In there somewhere is self-forgiveness.

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