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 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 10, 2012 § 1 Comment
I have heard and been told too often that one can choose to be happy. I am offended by the necessarily concomitant implication that one can otherwise choose to be unhappy. It’s that easy, is it? Who wants to be unhappy? Unhappines is an inability to be happy, to find what would make one happy. I do choose happiness, but not knowing what it is I can, at best, only attempt to create what I think it is. Knowing my needs but not how to attain them–that’s unhappiness. Not knowing peace or where to find it. Not knowing love or even what it is. What’s to choose when choosing isn’t receiving? What makes happiness a commodity? What makes anything a commodity but need and supply? Love, peace, happiness–they all seem to command a price, but did I not pay that price when I was born? Unhappiness is the frustration in waiting for that delivery.
April 24, 2012 § 2 Comments
Thinking about Herself doesn’t elicit what it used to. Sometimes it elicits nothing at all. I don’t like it. I could always count on feeling something and having something to say about it. Frustration was the inspiration of my reluctant muse. Now…I have difficulty conjuring her face. She’s gone but I still look for her. I need nothing from her. I don’t even ask the questions anymore. She was the face of what I wanted, though it was only a mask I had put on her. I wonder what she looks like without it, but it will only be when I stop wondering–when I stop caring–that I will know. It will be the time I look at her without wishing things had been different between us, the time I’m not even looking for her. As clinically cautious as I can be with these words, were I to see her tomorrow I would have no control over what I might say. Tomorrow’s not good for me. I’m just not inspired.
March 2, 2012 § 3 Comments
My daughters are high school sophomores. They’re aware that I had a life and girlfriends before their mother. They don’t know that I’ve had dates and girlfriends since. How weird would that be for them? They know the titles of my blogs, but as far as I know they haven’t read them. I would be able to tell if they had. They would look at me differently. They are no longer little girls, but I’m still their daddy. I’d rather be that than a lonely man, but the older they get the more important other men will become to them. I might remain the most important man in their lives, just not the only one. I don’t want to hasten the process, but I want them to know who I’ve been since I met Herself. I have never directly spoken to them about her. How could they relate? at least before they get the kind of attention I gave her? If in reading my blogs, my girls could separate me from the writing, they might be left with a cautionary tale. They know I am not what she thought I was. They know that I am a good man. After reading, they will know that a good man is still a good man though he may be strangled by frustration. Perhaps they will learn not to take these things personally. Perhaps they will face a man’s attentions without fear. That this might be a large part of my legacy to them is not disappointing. To have spared anyone (and myself again) any part of what I put myself through justifies the writing. They will be okay, and I will have done alright.