I have a bellwether for everything—or maybe it’s just a bell—but the drift is the same: the knowing-when-to or, more importantly the knowing-when-not-to is usually preceded for me by some kind of internal ding! or click or klaxon (replete with echoes!) that gives me that required pause to step back, look at the bigger picture and if proceeding at all, lights my way from hither, thither with cautionary lamps.
So nearly infallible is this annoyingly objective ping that its lack of firing has often led me to conclude that this Next Thing should be grabbed with gusto and emotional abandon.
As you might imagine, while serving me well when it’s on its game, those few exceptions to reliability have been doozies.
The red flag for me (flaggot that I am) with respect to dating or forming a romantic relationship (I have yet to catch the homoknack of forming multiple, simultaneous romantic relationships—and nature is replete with examples of the one-and-only-one, if-and-only-if scenarios so I feel comfortable in my inability) is simply this: never ever do it when in shallow, situational waters.
When thinking about being alone and feeling lonely (two separate things to me) and pondering the possibilities, if I find myself thinking things like: I want a tall boyfriend. Or a short one. Or an Asian one. Or one who is an artist (because I have neglected my own oil painting for decades). Or one who is a top. Or a bottom. Or a daddy. Or submissive. Or has a convertible. Or is older, younger, thin, muscled, lean, beefy. Or, self-repellently, one who is HIV-. Or positive. One who is smarter than I am. Or significantly lower in IQ. Or dark haired. Or blue eyed. Or lives in San Francisco. Or doesn’t. One who has a hairy chest. Or shaves it. Or is cleanshaven or bebearded. Or a woman, just for the hell of it. Or a guy in the tech sector so that we have more to talk about or one who isn’t so that I don’t bring my work home with me any more than I already do.
See what I mean? For my own self (lest any of you think I’m judging you if you genuinely use these criteria in search of a soul mate and then proceed to accuse me of judging and then fly off the handle and then stage a unilateral nutty and then disappear from my life—again), these are clearly indications that I need to remain apart from involving myself in someone else’s life. Not fair to them. Too much of me wallowing in a guilty rectitude before having to back out of things. Too little real and lasting basis to be with that person.
Some of you might think I don’t belong in San Francisco, with all of this kind of thing. But that’s exactly why I belong: because no one really does belong except by the grace we make ourselves by our choice to belong.
So as solitude has yet to give way to hermitage and this man apart doesn’t fly apart, I’ll gingerly continue along this way which has no path, no destination and no origin. And if it all gets to nihilistic—or annihilistic—I’ll find some way to remind myself that the lack of purposiveness to the universe is the greatest gift of all: freedom of choice. White. A blank page or canvas. [My] favorite. So many possibilities.
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