October 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
There is comfort in not caring about what I can do nothing to change, affect or effect, as long as I’m not just giving up. Bitterness is the shell of giving up, the indifference, purgatory; acceptance the truth, if not exactly the heaven. Foreground and background transpose: Importance rack-focuses. The shift is motivated by both fear and weariness: I fear what people think of me for belaboring my emotions over a relationship that never was; and I am weary of caring about it. So though I do, still, think of Herself, I let no one know. Keeping it to myself will make it unreal even to me one day. The woman I wanted her to be will be a woman unto herself, a fictional character I can understand. But as complete as she may become, she will only be so as a construct of my imagination; however nuanced her psychology or complex her emotions, she is yet not three-dimensional and never can be. She can’t be touched.
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.
October 9, 2012 § 1 Comment
What is a man anymore? Is he anything at all irrelative to a woman? If humans actually are driven to mate by biological imperative, then why do I care so much to attract women beyond child-bearing years when I can still father children? Is the man who does not identify himself relative to a woman a narcissist? Is the man who does needy? Is it the woman’s definition of him that makes the man? How does she define him as good enough for her? Can she? Does she want to bother anymore? Should he care? Can he be fully realized without her? or she without him? Is a declaration of independence anything more than a capitulation to solitude? a determined resignation to loneliness? “Man”? “Woman”? Does it matter what we are?
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 18, 2012 § Leave a comment
Is all of the love one seeks love for oneself? Is the end of seeking it from another the end of the search? We end the search when we’ve found it or have given up hope of finding it. In between is the torture. Some of us are more ready than others to give up the torture. Some of us have done enough searching to conclude that the point of diminishing returns is long past and cannot possibly be redeemed. At least it’s something final to believe, one less thing to bother with. But that no one can complete us is no good reason to accept aloneness. “Complete” or not, we are not meant to be alone, but to share ourselves, and to partake of others’ sharing. Searching is trying to share. Not-finding is not-sharing, but keeping is not completing. It’s giving up.
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.
June 5, 2012 § 4 Comments
What am I anymore? What’s left of me once I roll my sleeve up over my heart? I don’t want to be this guy, some kind of crusader for love. I can’t buy what I’m selling. Am I a fake? Everyone, to some extent, “makes do,” settles. Gives up–or is it “comes to his senses”? Is love a childish thing to hope for? to be given up as unbefitting an adult? or do we simply redefine it to fit our lowered standards? My standards have risen, but I’ve been wrong to pursue it. The real pursuit is of something bigger and broader into which my standard of love fits. Love is a reward of the true pursuit, not the quarry itself. I am a seeker, but I’m not sure what it is I should be seeking.