10 minutes 1/9/2016

Continued from this post

Even I had made fun of the solitary cheese during the game. Now I was ashamed of myself. Why should being alone – in and of itself – be such a matter of derision?

 

And it isn’t really, not in principle, but it has started to feel like it from, not only my inside out but from my outside in. Being wide eyed and wondering is getting cumbersome on myself and on my people, who seem to be slipping away moment by moment – wispy tenuous bonds of history fighting their way through cell signals.

In my more rebellious moments I asked myself why I should care about being shut out of the Noah’s ark of coupledom – in effect a glorified zoo, with locks and bars and fodder dished out at set intervals.

But there it is, just like in the book – the wanting, the feelings of derision, the inability to truly know and feel what I’m doing wrong. The wonder whether the scrim will be pulled back to reveal some enlightening moment that sets me on the path to understanding.

But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence from my waking life.

To get personal, the people and the qualities with which I have fallen in love perhaps paint to grand a picture of possibilities. Yes, I know I cannot curate the qualities of my choosing into the perfect person and life, but should I look at the crème de la crème of my past, rather than my outward indignation at lacking effort or missing components, I’m in awe of all that I’ve had. How could I choose? How could I know to choose?

And you know what you say? You say, “At some point you just cut your losses and go for it.” “You just find someone you can work at it with, forever.”

For fuck’s sake. How abstract is that? You tell me then:

  1. He works hard and enjoys life. He smiles, truthfully, often at me. He tries to refine himself, always seeking adventure, knowledge. He will not sleep in, even when begged. He is trim, muscular, active, athletic; he will age angularly. He speaks another language, which he learned after 30. He’s up for the challenge. What challenge? Doesn’t matter. He loves rationally, for him irrationality is like trying to eat a cloud. When I try to discuss the existence of god he tell’s me, “look at this beautiful day.” He is good.
  1. His home envelopes you like a knit blanket, dark and soft, smelling of soft wool and hardwood embers. His garden grows lush, but haphazardly, asparagus looking like a panda forest. He also speaks another language, two if you include computers. He is the perfect combination of rural and modern. You listen to NPR on Saturdays while the morning sunlight crosses the bed. He’s a naturalist, knows how to wield an ax, hang drywall. He likes to lie in the claw foot tub and drink tea mate. He likes me thin, so when he cooks breakfast I only eat half. He hides my things on top of his wardrobe in a box. He judges with Sufi silence as I shrink down to nothing.
  1. She tastes like mild soap. We can talk for hours, about everything, archeologists of thought, brushing away silt and going ever deeper. You adventure and eat and cuddle together. Everyone loves her. She is the perfect host, guest, leader, listener lover. She is the first person to give me an orgasm. She wants to do good for the world. She comes from privilege and appreciates refinement, quality, manners – sometimes it feels like we’re living the L Word in real life.
  2. He is honest, an honest loner. He can operate a tractor as easily as a backhoe, an 18 wheeler or a dump truck. He can fix and build and install. His hands are rough and peeled and big, with forearms to match. He has travelled, ridden his bike around lakes and across countries. He likes strong women; he likes me. We can spoon each other all night, every night. I breath him in. Other thoughts he cannot articulate. Rational arguments elude us. He will not be indebted. He will not read.

Of course all of these items are past due and nonrenewable, so I’m being facetious here. But this is how my brain tries to take the commentary and apply it to reality. So how did you figure it out? Which one lacked the necessary work or compromise? Which one deserved more than it got? And where does the function of instinct apply in a situation that requires so much deliberate effort? It’s like a reverse petutary gland, working it’s way back up from sexualized puberty to adulthood, comfort, nesting. Forget your hormones…this is a game of numbers.

Yet I think of that period as having been a happy time in my life.

Happy is the wrong word. Important.

I see it in retrospect, indulgently, from the point I’ve reached now. We can’t really travel into the past, no matter how we try. If we do, it’s as tourists.

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