December 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
Neither a fool nor a revisionist be. Who am I now to judge what I’d been then? I can’t say I’d not been in love, only that I had been so with the wrong woman. I can’t, either call myself a fool for not having known, but pride will call me names to dissemble from its pain and deny I’d been in love. Why is it so easy to be embarrassed and ashamed? What martydon is being served? What apologies are left? And whose forgiveness is left to ask for? But moving on won’t be accomplished so pragmatically. What I know and how I feel are each a hand of a different body. Neither nor both can affect a solution. In the face of that impotence, it’s easier to ignore the impulse to effort; if the restraint is as stressful as the effort, it is at least more effective. Just a theory. What would I know?
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.
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.
July 16, 2012 § 3 Comments
For a mid-life crisis, mine could have been flashier and more worthy of the embarassment, but I hadn’t the money to spend on a sports car, and a girlfriend would not have been a mistress. It wasn’t, at least, the usual way of doing a mid-life crisis, so not many people could easily dismiss it as such. I’m grateful for that, anyway. That I even had one is disappointing, but any life with regret and less time to spend than spent finds an urgency in making amends and completing itself. How many of us know what what we’ve missed our whole lives? We might try to take up knitting or candlemaking, guitar or painting, but what lifelong hole do those fill? Are they not just distractions with which we hope to obscure our real needs? I went straight for what I really wanted and needed. Failing at that, I am resigned to the casting about for consuming hobbies. I’m not convinced any better that I’ll find those than that I’ll find what I really want, but, then, I won’t look for them with even half the passion.
March 9, 2012 § Leave a comment
My other blogs don’t embarrass me. I don’t care how they affect my love life. Should I hesitate, in this googlized to give my last name to a prospective mate, knowing what she would find? Whatever labels interpretation applies to me, whether they stick or fall off is my call. I’ve just read the last post of A Bright, Ironic Hell. It astounds me. Yet I remember the day after the evening I published it and the laser glare Herself shot me at work when, from across the room, we first saw each other. What had I done? How had I offended her this time? I can’t wonder that over every word I wrote (or write), for her or anyone else. The blogs were always soliciting something–if not a Personals ad, at least a personal one: I set out not to showcase my outstanding features but to show all of them. I was after empathy. I was looking for someone who understood–a friend. I thought that might be her. Relative to now and the companionship I seek, the blogs stand as a test of compassion and understanding: Who can read them feeling neither piteous nor superior? Who can read them as I do now?