No Winning For Losing

There was an interesting (and extraordinarily) painful discussion this evening. Short, not sweet. It came from nowhere, swept through the core of me, and whisked itself away, taking a significant part of me with it. A part that I couldn’t afford to lose.

The conversation went something like this:

ME: [making some reference to having no interest in men these days] HIM: So does that mean you’re going to start [vulgar description of a heterosex act]. ME: Maybe I should think about women. At least they act like grown-ups. HIM: Well, aren’t you just above everyone else. ME: No, I’m outside of everyone else.

It was a sucker-punch on his part, because he knew the things I have suffered because of lover and friends. Betrayal. Lies. Selfishness. A best friend whose selfish and petty actions destroyed a years-long friendship in a matter of moments as if he planned it from the start. And for what? A meaningless titillation and something he absolutely knew would be dangerously hurtful to me. And of course, the expected response to being confronted? Lies.

But at least he got some affirmation of his sexual attractiveness from a much younger man. And the crew behind him, the rest of the gang moving slowly enough and in small enough steps to push me out of the main because my directness often threatened, my disagreement with the status quo of a hirsute ghetto often disrupted the safe, incestuous bubble of contentedness and-we-can’t-have-that-can-we? Offers of comfort that felt more self-serving than selfless (we can’t have around someone who reminds us of the world of pain outside those doors of this vault).

But the aftermath of the conversation continues to erode my state of mind, diminishing those thoughts that had any lilt to them. There happened to be very little pain today—a lovely change of pace—but this lack of sunny-side thoughts threatens whatever got me to this detente between self and body. Still threatens.

So no, I don’t feel above any of these people, I feel estranged, am estranged. And for a bunch of people who still mainly act like 15-yr-olds (comic books, video games, treating others as disposable sexual objects while expecting others to respect their own relationships, dances, almost cruel attention to detail in, of all things, dance remixes!), I’m just old. Death of a loved one never stole the joy out of my life, but it did leave my eyes permanently open and leave me utterly unable to ignore consequences. Of anything. But if you still want to act like those 15-yr-olds, then there are lots of kinky bitches looking for dirty sex so you can easily find them online.

And, at least relative to those people, I am alone.

Running with Syzygy

I am Norman Burroughs: watery blue eyes, disappointed, dispirited, plowed under, a melancholiac. Gravity works differently on me: I accumulate it.

Historically I’ve considered being disappointed in others an indulgence, a crude luxury. Bad taste that comes back to bite you on the ass. I was wrong: sometimes that which is must be spoken of. In pure and simple terms.

But it’s also the surest way to get you into a trouble you don’t deserve, surest way to get myself into trouble. Trouble deflected, trouble no one took the trouble to create invective much less hurl it themselves. Too much effort: it’s trouble deflected. The trespasses of others made into mine.

Perhaps that’s where all this extra gravity is coming from: ceramic hearts deflecting cold stabs where I was expecting the warmth of a beating human one.

Never say “it can’t get any worse” unless you’re on the last breath or two from an expected death.