Fuel to the Machine

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.

In My Pajamas

May 15, 2012 § 4 Comments

Getting to know myself has required a lot of time alone, but I have no intention of becoming hermetically sealed in my apartment. I bore myself sometimes. After the movies, books, music, and writing, there’s still no one there to talk to about them. I talk to myself, but I always know what I’m going to say. So I go to Carytown. It’s crowded, as a city street should be, with lots of shops from which I might actually buy something, but I’m just looking for conversation. I never know if I’m going to get it, but I know early on which it’s going to be. The first person I have opportunity to talk to is the bellwether. The sooner I get out after my morning coffee, the better chance I have to ignore my shyness. The conversation doesn’t start if I don’t initiate it. Some days I just can’t do that. It seems that on those days no one talks to me, either. Is it just that kind of world? or do I look like I don’t want to interact? Give me a couple more choices. On those days I want to think that if I stay out there a little while longer something will happen, but all that happens is I get home much later than I intended, feeling I’ve wasted the day, made no progress at all in my socialization, and dug myself a little deeper into my loneliness. Sounds like something I could have done at home in my pajamas.

Who Do I Think I Am?

March 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

There is a lot to life. I still have dreams, but they aren’t those of my youth, when I wanted to be a cowboy and a fireman and a baseball player. Reality, responsibility, practicality, low self-esteem turned those dreams to smoke. I even thought I would be a writer. But everything’s so hard. My needs seem simpler, but I can’t imagine attaining them. A lifetime of everyday responsibility has not prepared me for attending to my needs, which are not a bill to pay or a job to get to on time. The life prescribed by society is not mine at all. How do I get from it what it seems to have made no provision for? Playing by the sanctioned rules wins only trifles of that game and only amounts to a tease to keep playing. I’ve always hated playing, always knew there was nothing in it for me, no reward worth having, much less keeping; but tired of fighting or trying to play by my own rules, I would fall miserably back in line to give the pretense another go. That’s life–mine anyway: A run at freedom on a tether too short, a glimpse of my true self from too far away, then a return to the herd and my tattered blinders. Who do I think I am?

I Will Have Done Alright

March 2, 2012 § 3 Comments

My daughters are high school sophomores. They’re aware that I had a life and girlfriends before their mother. They don’t know that I’ve had dates and girlfriends since. How weird would that be for them? They know the titles of my blogs, but as far as I know they haven’t read them. I would be able to tell if they had. They would look at me differently. They are no longer little girls, but I’m still their daddy. I’d rather be that than a lonely man, but the older they get the more important other men will become to them. I might remain the most important man in their lives, just not the only one. I don’t want to hasten the process, but I want them to know who I’ve been since I met Herself. I have never directly spoken to them about her. How could they relate? at least before they get the kind of attention I gave her? If in reading my blogs, my girls could separate me from the writing, they might be left with a cautionary tale. They know I am not what she thought I was. They know that I am a good man. After reading, they will know that a good man is still a good man though he may be strangled by frustration. Perhaps they will learn not to take these things personally. Perhaps they will face a man’s attentions without fear. That this might be a large part of my legacy to them is not disappointing. To have spared anyone (and myself again) any part of what I put myself through justifies the writing. They will be okay, and I will have done alright.

What Does He Know?

February 17, 2012 § Leave a comment

Thinking about Herself, writing about all of it–maybe that means I’m not over her. Whether I agree or not, I won’t argue. If I’m not entirely dispassionate, I’ve moved a considerable emotional distance from her. I’m as much a journalist about it now as any journalist is about anything–opinionated but at least superficially bound to fairness. I know the source material by heart, but the heart is nearly done with it. The head is now sifting out the wild hopes and irrational actions. What’s left is lessons learned. I want to acknowledge them, affirm the growth, deny despair, maybe apologize a few more times. It’s history. I don’t want it to repeat. Not all of it. Love happens. Let it. Just don’t let it go it alone. Advice from a journalist: What does he know?

I’m Sure That’s Normal

February 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

There was much doubt. Little of it was mine. I knew I would write my way out of this. The concern was touching, but I was never going to talk to a professional about it. Only friends would do. I told Herself once that the blog was my best friend. It was a moment of glib pathos, but it was not far off the mark. Mine was the only advice or judgement I could accept in good conscience, too. I would still rather have talked to someone, but I didn’t know who to trust. So I trusted the world wide web to find me someone. I pled my case. I talked it out. I talked to one too many persons. Doesn’t matter. One thing I trusted was that I was doing the right thing. I still do trust that, but for different reasons. Then, it was the right to express myself. Now, it’s gratitude for the experience, the opportunity to grow. I am emotionally intact, if not satisfied. I’m sure that’s normal.

I Go Nowhere

January 3, 2012 § 3 Comments

The second cup of coffee is worse than superfluous but better than redundant if it can flush out the clogged thoughts in the tube of my pen. But I still pause. I don’t want to think about Herself or the way I hurt her and publicly humiliated myself. More coffee is not the answer. She must move no closer to the page than the back of my mind, but I’ve already failed to hold her back. And she’s not even the problem anymore. I don’t have from anyone what I wanted from her. Until I do…. What? Already I feel myself treading familiar ground–the last path I want to take. That’s why I’ve been so long away: I spin in the hub of radiating paths, vibrate between the extremes of possibility. I go nowhere.

Where Am I?

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