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.
July 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
Thinking about Herself makes me miserable, but I’m choosing to be miserable because I’m choosing to think about her. How can I help it when I just saw her after nearly ten months and she was gorgeous? and I hadn’t yet convinced myself that I wasn’t looking for her everywhere I went? when the welts on my back are so dense they can no longer feel the self-administered cat-o-nine-tails raining down upon them? I’m still asking her forgiveness. I want to believe that I deserve it and that it’s necesary, but I can only believe that she couldn’t feel the same way. To which of us am I giving the lesser credit? She was as impossible to look at as to tear my gaze away from. We had opportunity to talk. Who was the bigger failure to not approach the other? The person who most wanted to. It had been more than a year since she’d seen me. I’ve just been trying to be a good boy: No contact, no correspondence, no gifts or apologies–leaving her alone, letting her know I’m not a stalker, much less the “psycho” someone said she’d called me. To what end? To whose satisfaction? If she already has satisfaction, then what need could she have to help me get mine? She has nothing to apologize for, yet I want her to regret not loving me. Then what?
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.