December 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
Rules. Whose? Why not mine? The rules I can’t follow are rules I have to change, fit to me. It won’t work the other way round. Confidence makes the rules mine to make, mine to play. Fun. Whatever I get having fun is worth having. Only my rules know me. Why inexpertly interpret someone else’s handbook? For how much longer do I misapply someone else’s tricks? Haven’t I always eschewed tricks? Don’t fake it to make it; just make it! Tricks are fake, failed adaptations. As a diet is to eating. Know yourself and your needs, and you can trust your imagination to get them: Strategy for the honest.
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.
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.
July 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
I’m afraid to get closer than a flirt, but the prospect excites me. At least I can imagine it would. I want it but have no gauge of my readiness for it. Can I help but be shy about it? Can I help but try again? I will allow myself the reticence and the hope alike and vibrate to the midline–me natural. I want to not want so much as I’ve been asking for–rather, I just don’t want to ask for it (or for anything). When I can give is when I can receive. How do I do that? I want to believe that I’ve grown from all this, but I’m afraid to test it. Time will ace it–that’s me saying it, and even believing it, but compliance is in the hands of my patience, whose grasp is indifferent.
May 25, 2012 § 3 Comments
Fantasy keeps me warm, and the better I can imagine it the warmer I get. My imagination is fine, but I’m not feeding it enough reality; it has to fall back on old fodder, the bitter and the sweet. A spoonful of sugar gets it down: It’s all about serving a better attitude to the memories, which are all fantasies relative to many other relativities. Herself is the star of every show I’ve put on. The fantasies are private now, but I published them long ago. They are still good. Better. Nicer. More appreciative. (More humble?) I am redefining “living in the past”: It’s pushing me forward. She is on my mind because I want her to be. She is a product of it, or nearly so. She’s not yet a fiction, but she still works well in a fantasy. She said,“I don’t like you writing about me–like that.” Now I will respect it, if with a great deal of temptation to do otherwise. She can keep me warm in private. No one else has to know.
March 13, 2012 § Leave a comment
Speculation is a vanity of the imagination. There are many questions to ask, but do they need answered? What will be satisfied? Who’s truth will be told? If I were to run into Herself tomorrow I couldn’t ask one of those questions of her. Some things don’t matter if they only matter to you. Then you let go of them. Or you eventually only ask them rhetorically–and not snidely, either. They will always matter, really. I will answer them myself, but not with speculation. I only know my side. My truth will be incomplete. Accepting the impossibility of her corroboration and trusting my own understanding of it will be my letting go. I have to trust even what I’m not sure of–become sure of it–because it’s as sure as I will ever be. How true can that be? Can I ever believe it’s true enough? Can I ever stop wanting the answers?