I Wish...

...I didn't know.

I Am...

I am Jack’s broken heart. I’ve been blind, deaf, and dumb!

I know I’m at the end of my emotional reserves when every response I have is a quote from Fight Club. It’s a trite survival tool, but an effective one. Filtering my life through the philosophy of Fight Club allows me to take an emotional break, just long enough to remember that nothing external has anything whatsoever to do with me.

I had definitely forgotten that I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

And though I could wallow in freakish self-pity over my own ongoing foolishness, I think I’d rather impart – with the utmost gratitude – this simple sentiment:

We squared off in that dark, arousing basement and you kicked my ass – and in doing so set me free. Thank you! I remember now why ruthless selfishness is the human animal’s prime directive!

And with this recaptured liberty, I also remember the things I don’t have time for:

I don’t have time – or money, for that matter – for investments with no foreseeable return.

In that vein, I don’t have time for altruism. Even if someone could prove that such a thing actually exists.

I spend too much time with and for people who don’t give a shit, and not enough time with and for people who do. No one has time for that!

I don’t have time for deception of any kind, not even when its purpose is an attempt to avoid emotional pain. I certainly don’t have time for people who practice it.

I don’t have time for clothes that don’t fit, shoes that hurt my feet, or push-up bras. What you see is what you get.

I don’t have time for what other people think is right or wrong. I don’t have time for should or ought. I can say without reservation that I don’t have time to conform, even if I had the inclination to.

I don’t have time for unsatisfying sex. I barely have time for good sex. Posers need not apply.

I don’t have time for “maybe.” It’s too late in the game to be waiting for folks to get off the fence.

I don’t have time to donate to the personal gain of individuals. Didn’t plan well? Too fucking bad.

I don’t have time to grant second chances. When you show me who you are, I’ll believe you - the first time.

I’m not in a position to judge, and neither is anyone else. If I were, I still wouldn’t have time for it.

I don’t have time for things. My attention will not be wasted earning more money than I can use to buy crap I don’t need.

I don’t have time for complacency, ambivalence, or condescension. Wanna make excuses or feel superior? Take it elsewhere.

I don’t have time for guessing or games. If you love me, show it. If you don’t, get out of my way.

I don’t have time to fulfill anyone’s needs but my own. My needs might include others, but they certainly don’t depend on them.

I don’t have time for average. Bring it… or don’t. But don’t expect me to applaud you for half-assed efforts at minimal proficiency.

And, when all is said and done, I doubt I’ll find time to feel the need to justify my actions, feelings, or desires. To anyone. Down one road is a grand adventure… down the other is safety. I don’t have time to worry about the choice.

I am Jack’s smirking revenge.

Memory Necklaces

I read a sort of goofy meditation ritual today that asked the reader to imagine an "energetic" manifestation of self as wearing beaded necklaces, each representing a specific emotion. The mediation ritual was designed to be a visualization of sorts, a way to disentangle from emotions associated with memories that cripple the spirit.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too.

But as I dismissed it, I saw a quick picture in my own mind of a body wearing so many necklaces, some of which were so long that they had to be wrapped several times around, that the body itself was not even recognizable. For if each necklace represents an emotion, and the length of each strand represents how many times during a lifetime that emotion has been experienced, a person my age must be carrying a veritable king's ransom in memory beads.

That's gotta be pretty fucking heavy.

So fucking heavy, in fact, that I believe the meditation guru just might have a point. Do I really need to carry around each instance of each emotion, building upon each memory until the weight of that particular emotion is unbearable?

I mean, we can all guess which strands are the longest, right? It doesn't take a theoretical physicist to deduce that the painful, self-doubting, self-deprecating, jealous, and angry memory necklaces are the ones with the greatest number of beads. We've all become so emo now that we don't have to chase our food.

I'm pretty sure I'm not obligated to wear memory necklaces. I lost (or burnt, I can't remember) my copy of the Human Rule Book long ago, but I have absolutely no recollection of a mandate to decorate myself with beads of remembrance and forever bear the burden of their horrific weight. Good, bad, ugly, or indifferent... what use do I have for more than two or three beads apiece?

Yep, pretty fucking heavy. I think it's time to lighten up.

Sweet Release

I exacted vengeance today.

You don't know it, but my pride is avenged. I'll wear the bruises of it for weeks, the scent of it like an exotic fur. What you started was finished; what I wanted, I had. The fragrant and slippery fruit of my hope and trust was sliced and eaten and thoroughly enjoyed, mere minutes after you declined the offering - again.

I am shamed, but free.

The Love Trump

"Lust is stronger than love." That's the quote, and - try as I might- I can't disprove it.

I thought about not coming back to this at all. It won't make me popular and I feel a million ugly glares pointed my way just thinking about it. Unfortunately, none of your sappiness will make that five-word statement any less true.

We're not just talking about sex, here. Lust takes many forms. And every form it might take - explicit, subtle, surreptitious - trumps love.

Doubt me, do you? Think about this, then: is it love that keeps you from acting on your lust? And don't tell me you don't feel it, because you do. Sometimes it feels like greed, sometimes it feels like hunger, sometimes it feels like covetousness, often it is violent, and sometimes it just feels like good old-fashioned horniness, and you feel it every day. Is it love for your significant other that stops you from taking the meaningful eye contact with the dark-eyed stranger in the coffee shop as far as you know it will go? No. It's social paranoia. You don't want to get caught - by anyone! - doing a thing you promised someone you'd never do. Doesn't matter how unreasonable that promise was or is, the only thing that matters is that you won't slake your lust in all manner of hedonistic pleasures because you fear being caught doing it. Giving in to lust is the equivalent of social suicide, tantamount to moral seppuku.

You fear being judged.

Oh, and here's the funny part: you fear being judged by people who are just as lustful as you are. You fear judgment from people who are pulling their hair out trying to keep you from knowing what lustful desire they gave in to today, what bridge they themselves burned as the object of their lust waved them merrily forward. Is it love that fuels their judgment? Of course not. They want your social circle - however big or small it may be - to focus on your percieved shortcomings so theirs remain undiscovered. The politics of lust are the most sinister known to man. Just ask former President Clinton.

It's fear that stops you, not love. Do you love your loved ones less when you give in to lust? Absolutely not. Does indulging in a particular craving mean that your love has somehow become less than it was? Never. Love is love is Love. But lust is stronger, oh yes it is. It's lust that people lie for, die for, kill for - not love.

And if the fear of reprisal is overcome, there's no stopping it.

An Exercise in Contrast

I remember buying the wedding dress, and knowing it was the right one by the way your eyes glittered with sudden and unexpected joy as you sat, humoring me, in a reupholstered chair to the side of the dais.

Later, much later, you told me at which point you would begin to remove that dress on our wedding night. Then you showed me.

I remember fumbling in anger and terror with the key and wondering how much time I had as I tried to retrieve that dress from your apartment, leaving everything else. What a sight I must have been: walking alone in the middle of the night, wearing a Stetson, and carrying a wedding dress with a full cathedral train.

I remember our first night together, how you raged and rutted and sobbed and shuddered; how our bodies fit like puzzle pieces and how, at the end, I was wrung out like a washcloth and had nothing left to give - but my ear- to your gutteral croak of "stay."

And when I finally did, you were afraid to leave me; making excuses to come home from work to make certain I still slept soundly in the big bed I sold my soul to buy. You laughingly chided me for not waking fully enough to challenge you upon entering; I could only shrug sleepily and yawn, "Who else would it be?"

I remember our last night together: my terror and helplessness as I lay pinned beneath you, your once-beloved body now the warden of my tiny and effective prison, your breath hot and thick with rage. Each time my head hit the floor I heard a new word: You. Are. Mine. You. Can't. Go. I. Won't. Let. You. Go. You. Fucking. Bitch.

I remember the boyish boldness with which you escorted me to the finest establishment you could afford for our first dinner together. I struggled to hide my amusement - after all, we could have gone anywhere had you not insisted upon taking the financial burden upon yourself - as you opened doors for me, seated me, ordered for me, and orchestrated an amazing dessert that I could find nowhere on the menu.

Later, much later, I sat impaled by your frighteningly hot length as you burned with fever, feeding you orange slices and singing you lullabyes. Drenched with sweat, you murmured incoherently, but would not allow me to move even long enough to call an ambulance.

I remember making an excuse to get out of the house so we could share a Thanksgiving dinner. We sat in silence, you shaking with anger so violently it made the silverware rattle on the table. I moved to stand, to escape the horrific silence long enough to wash my hands, and you yanked me back by my hair. My head hit the table at the same time that my backside connected with the floor; through the explosions of fireworks in front of my eyes and the roaring in my ears I heard, "Get up, stupid."

I remember decorating a pathetic little tree with odds and ends and bits of ribbon, splurging only on the string of lights that created, in the dark of that miniscule room, an ethereal space. We lay on the floor, entwined, faces upturned toward the twinkling branches. Your breath in my ear, "I love you, you are my only," your scent filling my nostrils, commingled with old carpet and seeping pine.

You left message after message on my voicemail, crying out my name randomly in the midst of strings of polysyllabic gibberish punctuated by sounds of flesh striking metal. Knowing I would look at the Caller ID, you called from every pay phone you encountered in that all-night drunken excursion. Fascinated and frightened by the intensity, I dared not turn off the phone.

I remember seeing your truck as I exited the auditorium through the back door into the parking lot that I had thought was safely hidden from the street. Already knowing that the effort was futile though I could not yet see you, I ran at full, panicked speed to my car only to realize that you were sitting, hidden, against the driver's side door. As you stood to greet me - like nothing had ever happened!! - I dived into the relative safety of my car. I turned in time to see your fist shatter my window, pelting my face and body with broken glass. You dragged me partially out of the window to within centimeters of your face, shouting and shaking: You're! Dead! To! Me!

I remember seeing you for the first time and thinking, Oh, there you are!

You walked casually into the hospital room and said, "It's all right now. Here I am."

I tossed the deed to a dream now dead onto the Formica tabletop. You pushed an envelope, fat with money and regret toward me, almost mockingly. "There you go."

MySpace: WTF, Mate?

Okay, so I have a MySpace account. Yes I do.

I originally set it up so I would be able to actually learn about the system so my daughter couldn't pull the wool over my eyes about what the server is capable of and what it's not. I also wanted to learn all the little tricks so I could decrease the chance of her getting one over on me.

So I set up the account, using a fake picture and minimal information. My 15-year-old daughter was my one and only friend (not counting Tom, of course).

Then my daughter's friend sent me a "friend request." I was thrilled! Someone wanted to be my friend on MySpace!! So what if it was another 15-year-old?? Then I found out my son has a MySpace account, so I sent him a friend request. Now I had three - count 'em, three - friends!!

I can't even describe the utter ecstasy I felt when my first comment was posted. You know you're really somebody on MySpace when you have comments.

I learned how to embed a song or video into my profile. Oh yeah. Folks who visited my profile now had something to listen to as they perused my comments!!

I slowly collected a few more friends. Some were actually adults. And then my daughter and I decided that I needed more friends, so she posted a bulletin advertising my friendless state. Lo! and Behold!! Friend requests galore!! I skyrocketed into delusions of popularity as I changed my "Top Friends" capacity from 4 to 16 to encompass ALL of my 14 friends.

Yes, I know that most people have at least 200 friends. All I can say about that is: cyberspace imitates life.

Then, my friends started to ask questions like, "Why am I behind so-and-so if he leaves you comments and whatnot and I don't?" Of course, I had to post an entire bulletin dedicated to the fact that I don't arrange my "Friends" space in any particular order except for the first two - my daughter and my son. I qualified this bulletin by acknowledging that some people might manage to be offended by being placed in no particular order, but that I would have to persevere and possibly lose their MySpace friendship in order to abide by my own personal values. I shudder to contemplate the day when my "Top Friends" space doesn't have room for ALL of my friends. What drama awaits? How will I prioritize my friendships then??

More importantly, how am I going to prioritize Toby Keith, Jake Peavy, and Gil the Crab?? Does their specialty status in life automatically entitle them to preferred status in my friends list? Is there a protocol for this??? I am overcome by etiquette stress already and Toby Keith hasn't even responded yet.

Exhausted from all this negotiating, I noticed that my profile was boring in comparison with the icon-studded and video-laden profiles of some of my friends. It was time to freshen my perspective and join the ranks of those who pimp their MySpace. After three tries, I was able to change the colors and basic layout of my profile - and embed a personalized photograph.

Now we're getting somewhere, I thought gleefully. Now my friends not only had cool tunes to rock out to while visiting my profile - perhaps to leave comments!! - but had soothing colors to enhance their profile-visiting experience. I was proud of my new-found cyber-knowledge. I was impressed by my own derring-do. I was hip, man!!

And now, I'm committed. Now I have to manage comments and messages, accept or deny friend requests, mediate the personal drama of my 14 friends, and read pages full of surveys and personal confessions. Instead of calling my friends on the phone, or visiting them at their various places of residence, I now visit their MySpace profiles to get updates on current events in their lives, most of which need to be cross-referenced with the profiles of their friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...

It's more than a hobby, man. It's MySpace.

A Topic to Ruminate Upon and Return to...

From a recently read book:

"But lust is stronger than love..."

Upon reading the line, I was struck by the fundamental truth of it, until my "rational" mind took over and dissected it in an attempt to prove the basic falsity of it. A strange reaction, to be sure: why would my mind rail against the truth it recgonized so suddenly and fully?

Let's come back to it.

Humility None Too Soon

This is a difficult subject for me to write about, but I don't think I'm going to be able to purge it any other way.

The long and short of it: I'm accustomed to getting what I want. Especially where men are concerned. This time I didn't. And now I feel...

Well, silly.

And broken, used, angry, frustrated, sad, old, undesirable, and humbled.

But mostly silly.

You see, I'm new to the "trying" game, because usually I don't really have to. Being new to it, I certainly tried too hard, and for far too long. And the bitterness I feel now would be very easily directed toward the man himself if I were less human than I am (or more so?), as it would have been very simple for him to prevent me from making an utter fool of myself by just being completely honest about his motives or lack thereof. The reality of it is that I kept trying, far past the point of diminishing returns.

That's hardly his fault, right? Right.

But the "diminishing returns" statement is really the key to the heart of the matter. In retrospect, there weren't many returns in the first place and "diminishing" is generous. There was some joyriding in there, but it was the kind that is the usual precursor to further intimacy and this time that just wasn't the case. I wanted to show him so many things! Not the least of which was the fact that secondary relationships often enhance primary relationships and don't have to reflect the nightmarish forced-morality scenarios that Hollywood loves to exploit our fears with. And I interpreted consistently mixed signals as a sign that, somewhere inside, he really wanted to come along but hadn't yet broken free from the moral paranoia that's infused into our social norms. And I kept trying!! I approached it from every angle I could think of and failed miserably. And now, thousands of dollars, hours upon hours of time, and a million suggestive self-portraits later, I am...

Silly.

But I realized, driving home today, that so much of my failure to secure the thing I wanted can be attributed to factors beyound my control... yet, I have taken this failure upon myself and somehow turned it around to fit into my newest litany of self-hate: "You're old, you're ugly, your thighs are out of control and you're too lazy to do anything about it, you're boring, you're a total bitch, no WONDER he doesn't want you...," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And though these things may, in fact, be true for the man in question, they are certainly not true across the board.

I've found myself using this one experience as an excuse to isolate myself, a reason to just quit the game entirely. Because of this one failure - which, in the grand scheme of things matters not at all - I wound myself into quite the little tizzy of self-doubt... which, naturally, led me to believe that all I had to do was try harder - even though failure was - and always was - inevitable. The worst part of this is that I based my sexual value on this experience rather than on the input of several others who were pushed to the curb because I was trying to get something out of my reach. And that's the sickest thing of all: I would willingly choose to interpret my extrinsic value based on the guarded and dowright cagey reactions of the one person who obviously doesn't want anything to do with me rather than on the honest and open admiration of those who do.

I'm glad I've figured it out. Silly, indeed! But an important lesson nonetheless, as my own predilection toward self-deprecation needs better monitoring lest I find myself in another unvectored thrust toward trying too hard for too little return.

Moments of Grace

The other night, my youngest and I drove to pick up another child from a dance. It was about 11:00 pm - not late on a Saturday night by anyone's standards and certainly not by Southern California standards. We had a short drive to the freeway, but during that trip we saw not another car. Not even one. And when we came off the long (and strangely deserted) on-ramp to presumably merge into freeway traffic, there was none. I could see a spattering of red taillights far ahead of us and a glow of headlights far behind... but no one was within a mile of us.

We had a SoCal freeway to ourselves. For about 30 seconds, because we got off at the next exit.

My youngest is 8, and she displayed a measure of trepidation by asking, "Where is everybody? What's wrong??" At 8 years of age, she already knows that there is traffic everywhere we go. Worse, she already knows that no traffic probably means something is not right.

"Enjoy it, honey," I said, "It's a moment of grace."

I am grateful.

Where was I? Where were YOU??

I made it through the day without ripping anyone's head off. It was damn close a couple of times.

I made it through the day without lecturing anyone about their constant complaints regarding the noise from Miramar. No matter how many times I tell people that all that noise is the sound of their fucking freedom, they never seem to get it.

I made it through the day without crying. Okay, that's a lie.

I made it through the day without sobbing hysterically in public. Quite a feat.

I made it through the day without screaming at my neighbors to get the fucking flags that they flew so proudly during the days after our National Tragedy out of whatever dusty bin they tossed them in once the shock had passed and fly them just as proudly now. This thing ain't over.

I made it through the day proud to have served and contributed to our current state of readiness. I wished - like a million times before - that I could contribute more... now... again...

I made it through the day without wearing my disappointment in many of my fellow Americans on my face like a mask of contempt. Because if it had been MY decision, this would have been a one-day war. Sorry, civilians (who just happen to live where the terrorists live). Sucks to be you.

I made it through the day with a previously unknown shred of objectivity. In retrospect, it's a good thing that it wasn't me making that decision. Because the entire Middle East would have been a smoking hole in the Earth and we'd be having fallout lawsuits right and left.

But you know what? America would have forgotten about my rash decision and moved on. Three guesses how I know that... first two don't count.

And now, a moment of sanity....

It will be but a moment, trust me. I can't maintain a realistic outlook for longer than that.

Body crisis averted? No. Adequately dealt with? No. Faced head on with realistic goals for the future? Nary a chance, good fellow. Licked, promised, and pushed to the back burner to simmer until scorched and unrecognizable? You got it.

Marital issues? Yeah, I still got 'em. The spousal unit was back for a two-week visit, and it went relatively well (that means there was only one irrational screaming match and - for once! - I chose not to play). He threatened to come back for good in November. Funny how he never gets around to asking if I'm willing to even HAVE him back at all. But, still consumed by ambivalence, I'd have no answer if he did.

He did fix the garbage disposal and the backyard sprinkler system. I rewarded him with sex and dinner at the nicest restaurant that I could afford.

And today I sit in my briefly empty and momentarily quiet house, enjoying a minor respite and trying to pinpoint the feeling of helplessness that is the underlying foundation of the ambivalence that plagues me. It's MY life, right???? Why do I hesitate to control it?

Hmmmmm.