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.
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.
November 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
(To the tune of “I Can’t Stand It” by the Chambers Brothers.)
The associations abound and are unavoidable. They abound because I don’t allow myself to avoid them. After all, I created them, as I did the grudge of their presence. I created the entire drama from my own exacting specifications. If I didn’t always know what my actions had set in motion, I knew I’d get a story out of it. The blueprint was subject to perpetual revision, yet I could never figure out how to attach the happy ending. So it’s the association I try to make happy, which amounts, simply, to allowing them to be what they were. Nothing abouty my association with Herself was unhappy before she rejected me. But it wasn’t happy, either, living on hope and adrenaline, every movement a leap in a dance around a motionless partner, enacting the flight of my fancy. The story lived to be near her, died trying to bring her closer. I had forgotten nothing but the happiness. It’s coming back to me.
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 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
There is more past behind me than future ahead of me. The end is nearer than the beginning. I see it more clearly. The past is full of innumerable presents I never had time to understand. The future promises that understanding, but the wisdom awarded smacks of consolation: What do I do with it? The future will be spent stoically mopping milk, dusting the thick-grown regret from the surfaces of a half-lived life at least three-quarters done. Wondering if living alone is worse than dying alone. Peeling away identities curling at the edges. Appreciation of, after resignation to, what’s left after the cleanup, gradually acclimating to the stark gleam of the end of tunnel.
August 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
Twice shy stretches to forever shy, at least at work. Interest in her awaits interest in me. Every thought of attempting to get to know her is shadowed by my treatment of Herself and how I have been judged for it. And she is shy, like Herself, and I don’t think I can work that hard again. She doesn’t know it, but it’s her turn. I have hope, just not in her. I have hope in the woman who doesn’t presume to know me as she thinks she knows all men; the woman who isn’t waiting for me; the woman who shows her interest; the woman who could never think of me as an obsessive monster–not before she got to know me and forgave me that past.
August 14, 2012 § Leave a comment
The idea of “helpmate” has been introduced to me, and I wonder if that isn’t what I’m looking for. It isn’t, but it’s probably what I’d settle for. It would be nice to have someone around to ease the practical burdens of everday life, but that person would be a maid and a cook. What is a helpmate beyond that? There are other burdens to be made less burdensome. Can a helpmate also be the ear to listen, the hand to hold, the mouth to kiss? Emotion is missing from the word “helpmate,” a resignation to the practical side of a relationship wherein passion is designated little to no room. I’m not equipped, after all, to settle for a helpmate–too stubborn, too hopeful to give up on a birthright. I have given up on a lot of things I once thought I’d be or do, but those were pieces that didn’t fit into the puzzle of me. To make “helpmate” fit would require nothing less than the redesigning of the puzle, and that’s an idea whose time I hope never comes.