It’s very possible that I’m 37 years old and I don’t know what I want. I say I want love. But what does that even look like for me now. I was so certain. And now I see that certainty as a place I was hiding in.
When I’m with someone, I feel so adventurous. Like I want to show them what a interesting guy I am. How spontaneous. Sometimes, it’s how spiritual. Like I’m putting on a play for this one person. And I want to tell myself that we hide in the play to slowly reveal ourselves but I think we are all just hiding.
I’m hiding. Hoping that someone will find me. And so afraid that that’s not going to happen. We say we’re happy being alone. That we haven’t met the right person. And it’s bullshit. We’ve met the right person. Because there is no perfect person. No joy without sorrow. And there I go, trying to impress again.
I strive for chemistry when it’s not there. I break what connection there is under the weight of my hope. I worry when they don’t call. And I wonder if she was the one chance I had. If she was the only one who could find me. And I cry, and I write.
I’m always depressed the day after a date. Doesn’t matter how well it goes. The next day is always bad. I don’t know what that is about.
Someone teach me to make small talk or talk about myself verbally. Writing I’m good. Talking, I’m an idiot.
When I was younger, I once got in trouble for writing a sentence that used the word regret properly. The sentence? I have no regrets.
I suppose the teacher was having a bad day.
Well, I’m older now and I have a few regrets. If you’ve read this blog then you know a few of them. If you haven’t, well why not? There is some good stuff in there. *grins*
But seriously, there is one thing my mind travels back to. I was at PAX Prime a few years back. I was standing in line to get the swag bag that they were assembling up front. It was the longest line I’d ever stood in. And it was moving forward just enough to not allow people to play games or otherwise entertain themselves. It was grueling, dehumanizing and was for a bunch of nonsense frippery that ended up thrown out. It was hot in the queue line. Packed and my feet were killing me. And I had with me a print of a Jim Darkmagic painting. Which now hangs in my closet, so you know it was a good purchase. It was unwieldy and I wanted nothing more than to not be in the line. But we were halfway in, so I stayed.
Then, I saw something heartbreaking. Towards the front of one of the rows, a person was sitting on the floor crying. Lost and alone in a sea of humanity. People were avoiding her. There was 3 foot circle around her. I don’t know what had happened. But I know what didn’t. In this mass of a so called compassionate gamer community, here was someone truly hurting. I didn’t help her. My instinct said to help. My intuiton said to help. My heart was breaking for this person. But I did nothing. And that I truly regret. I don’t know if there was anything I could do. But I could have been there. Available and human. Even now, years later, it wrentches me. A terrible grief. I doubt that person will read this, but let me say I am truly, deeply sorry. If I could, I would change my actions. I can only promise, that you would not sit alone now.
“Regret is a dull and rusted blade, that covers me in scars that never fade. ”
Sometimes scars are the visible reminder of who you were and must never be again.
Meeting someone is like visiting a new city. Some people want to see the sites. The highlights, so that they can say, “Oh, Pelgris? I’ve met him. Such a fascinating man.” Some people are just passing through.
My preference is to walk the streets. Get to know the neighborhoods. What wonders and mundane glories are to be had. I want to know your thoughts and ideas. Your past and your dreams. I want to share the journey with you. To see you smile. But I’ll fail.
I want these things, these experiences but I can’t leave well enough alone. So I’ll meet someone and I’ll seem fine at first but then I’ll send pictures of sunsets, clouds and storms. I’ll send poetry and music. I’ll give gifts way too soon, little things that I think you’ll like. And ultimately I will be overwhelming.
I am not in love. I’m just trying to share beauty and making a hash of it. I’m trying to make a human connection instead of allowing it to become. I know I’m doing it. And still I take those actions.
You are beautiful beyond measure or sanity
You are strength when I am broken
My heart is yours until suns dying
Your mind is the elegance of steel
Your smile is both shy and lovely.
It’s 2:30 AM and I have awoken. I’m warm in a cool room. Surrounded by the comforts of long years. My cat is snuggled up against me, a furnace in fur, she purs her contentment. But I am awake here. There is something missing,though not a comfort seems overlooked. Soft music plays. Then I realize what is absent.. Someone to share this moment with, who will mutter sleepily. Who I will move lightly around to write my poetry. I’ve found some amazing people in my searching. But this dream, I’ve not found an answer to.
Sex is pleasurable but in American culture it is obsessed over. If you have many partners you are considered a real man. Due to the inherent misogyny of our culture. Or, if a woman, are considered a slut, for the same reason.
Sex is raised up to be the end goal of social interactions and is shamed when that goal is reached. There are idiotic laws about what sex acts are legal, what commercial transactions are legal. We are a culture that on the one hand is hypersexualized and on the other is fanatical in our suppression of that sexuality.
So as an individual it is difficult to traverse those waters. For myself, I see sex as merely one of a great number of pleasurable activities that can be engaged in with one or more partners. It’s not the goal of any relationship I’m in but an expression of that relationship.
To the society at large that would seem to be unmasculine or in some way lacking. If I’m not constantly seeking sex, I’m seen as odd or less than a man. It’s hard for me to understand how important it is. And I question whether it is really sex that is desired or if it is fact a desire for physical contact with another person. Whatever form that may take.
Sex takes the place of more vulnerable contact. With sex we can play a role in the larger societal hangups that the USA has, and in doing so shield ourselves from the harder desires. We find it easier to assume and ask for sex than to ask to be held. To feel safe, cared for, if only for a night. I’m all for pleasure body and mind. But I think we need to examine if it is pleasure we want or if we are lacking in physical touch of any kind. I seem to have lost the thread of my original point.
Bottom line: Slut shaming is bullshit. And so is being shamed for not constantly wanting sex. Sex is pleasure. And can mean any number of things to anyone at any given time. But if we are honest with each other I think we’d all be better off.
I let my mind be taken in by lavish fancy
Lured into darkened grottos and fed faerie wine
Drunken on the hearts dreaming
I sabotage reality
A bright tale of how we could be but never are
My heart beats its painful yearning
Fogged mind wakes long ‘fore the morning
Aftermath in disappearance
‘ I just don’t see you in that way’
Hearts blood upon my lips.
Romance is a language I’m fluent in, perhaps too fluent. I like the beauty of it. I like flowers and cute gifts, I like listening and the dramatic gesture. I like sitting on the couch, arm around you watching a movie. Or both of us reading books, sharing passages with each other. Even the sharing of chores, the endless minutia makes me smile when I think of the greater implication of what those bits mean. I’m that guy; I’m not just trying to get into your pants(which is a discussion unto itself). I like the broad gesture, partly for the artistry of it, partly for beauty and partly because, in person, I have a hard time getting over my nervousness. The romance provides a framework for me to hide in, until I’m comfortable. Then I’ll just be me.