November 9, 2012 § Leave a comment
I used to call it the Cinderella Complex. I applied it to one person, and bitterly. I couldn’t understand the rejection; I hadn’t been given a chance. But Cinderella didn’t sit around waiting for Prince Charming and had no suitors to reject. She didn’t pretend at martyrdom to her drudgery or claim an exclusive wisdom that instantly validated her judgements. She was unique. No one else will wear the glass slipper. Prince Charming is taken for Ever After, and there was ever only one of him. None of this knowwledge does me any good. I know I’m not Prince Charming, but all I meet are Cinderellas.
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Permission to be happy struggles against a habit of bitterness and blame; acceptance against judgment. Who we ware against who we are. The struggle is in the choosing. Or in allowing there to be no choice. Giving in. Having faith, even that there is something to have faith in. Or losing the faith we have. Do we need a faith? or faith? What can we afford to take for granted? What will come to our rescue? Irony and cynicism slobber under the tightrope, but let ’em go hungry while other passions consume us in a more comforting fire.
October 19, 2012 § 2 Comments
Is my gaze on a woman tyrannical? Knowing what I mean by it, I shouldn’t have to ask the question, but I ask because I am not, apparently, allowed to judge. Am I looking upon her with appreciation or aggression? Perception trumps intent. What she sees is what I intend. I’d better not look. I’d better not even want to look. Who knows into what depths my lascivious intentions can be followed. Perception is the tyranny here in the Blame Age. My gaze injects her with fear. My gait, my stance–my very being!–how menacing they must be! How dare I! What am I? Some kind of monster? I’m sorry for both of us. I’ll retire to my manacles in the garret and allow you the run of the castle. Which one of us will be lonelier?
October 5, 2012 § Leave a comment
Getting to know love and appreciate oneself requires aloneness. Aloneness is easy. One’s toleration of it is gauge of one’s comfort with oneself. Some of us possess this comfort jealously, to the exclusion of others. Others may learn, in their solitude, to hate themselves the more, and consider it a favor bestowed upon the world to not project themselves upon it. That is a recluse. That is not me. What I am I want others to know. I can only share that about myself with which I have come to terms–that I accept in its imperfectness without judgement. I am alone, and I might be alone for some time yet–I am still judging myself and finding myself wanting–but I am not hiding.
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 7, 2012 § 2 Comments
I have told no one but you that I’m publishing this thing. How’s my conscience? I fear the judgement of someone who thinks Herself should be old history, and I suspect everyone to be that person, because I’m in denial of having already made that judgement of myself. It’s a fair one–if you believe I’m not over her. You’re smarter than I am. I saw her and got a face of denial pie: Nothing Ive been telling myself since she left rings true. But why do I deny this truth? Do I have to be ashamed of forgiving myself and trying to apologize to her? There’s an irony at work that I’m ill-equipped to untangle. There’s the hope that she at least no longer thinks badly of me, but that becomes the hope of getting another chance; there’s the thought of her forgiving me, but then there’s the dread of being forgotten; there’s knowing what I want and knowing the impossibility of getting it: The proportions are volatile; I couldn’t possibly equate them better. All I really know is that the product, confusion, is fuel to the writing machine.
March 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
Friends are hard to make and harder to keep. Especially if you define them as strictly as I do. I have three friends. I can talk to them about anything. I can ask of them any favor and feel neither sheepish nor guilty about it. I trust they would do the same of me. I trust that they care for my well-being as I care for theirs. This might sound like family, but with family it is an obligation, whether willing or not. The bond is not of one’s choosing. I’m excited to find someone to whom I feel I can relate. It usually doesn’t last–the excitement or the relationship. Neither of us can accept all we need to accept of the other. We can relate to certain interests but cannot reserve critical judgement of the other. The last I heard of one such acquaintance was, “Don’t judge me,” after I couldn’t agree that some black people looked like apes. Some patrons I see and talk to quite often at the library, but where are they outside that world? I live far from where I work. It is not my community. Connection is about what we are willing to receive. We start with what we give, hoping another will receive it and reciprocate. Rare is the balance.