Fri, Apr. 18th, 2008, 02:15 pm
Ugh gotta lay off the pot, the belly's getting big enough to become self-aware any minute. But its not all bad. All this consumption, if kept under control, is good and healthy and a short country mile behind actual productivity. If it isn't pot its some other drug, and if it isn't that then it's probably a succulent dish or five of meats and vegetables carefully prepared by friends for dinner on any given night. And its just not me who's consuming. Everybody's getting fat! And not just their bellies. Their egos and characters and self-confidence are absolutely distended with big, juicy, calorific, sensual, inspirational, uplifting, grounding, POSITIVE mass. Is it spring or what in the air? Is it our beautiful new apartment?
Scott is accepted into grad school for guitar, my sister is graduating grad school in a week, M has her husband back, Chris has found a lucrative job and Ben is stress-free and happily rid of his not-so-lucrative one. M#2 is ready for kids and a certain couple are very in love, Ginger is single and will quickly find a healthy relationship, and Madison M is a few U.S. states away from a potentially lasting one we hope. Kathryn found a beautiful new apartment and received a wonderful payraise, Topher isn't moving to the deep suburbs and Zack wants to play music. Drugs are absolutely everywhere and most importantly we're no longer the black sheep of our social circle. Who knows what else.
Sex has never felt better. Sex is intense and a release every time. Sex is on the A-list and my libido is tightly fecund. But we don't have TIME for sex! Sex is becoming hurried to make room for events usually INSPIRING sex, again and again, whether its another man's mouth on her nipples or her lips on hers or his and hers, or simple suggestions, slipped inuendos and eye contacts or heavy invitations, I feel fascination and I want more and I wish she would take it further. I want time to take it further with her alone so we can take it way further, perhaps tomorrow, when we roll again. Maybe I can direct. Oh how I do love to direct.
I might be goddamn tired. I might think and say no when my heart extols a sounding yes yes yes yes yes!, and I might upstage a social opportunity only to change my mind a few steps downstage. I put on my acts. I'm a moody fucked up bastard. Look at a gift horse in the mouth? Sure! But that's just me being scrupulous.
Anyway, everyone, please keep it up.
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Scale (%) results (Your main type
is which ever behavior you utilize most and/or prefer. Your variant
reflects your scoring profile on all nine types: so
= social variant (compliant, friendly), sx
= sexual variant (assertive, intense), sp
= self preservation variant (withdrawn, security seeking)):
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Enneagram Test Results
|Type 1 ||Perfectionism||||||||||||||||50%|
|Type 3||Image Focus||||||||||||||||||||||74%|
Your main type is 3
Your variant is sexual
Last night I dreamed of white masks on tables and of a demand to put them on. The masks had faces, hundreds of faces laughing and crying and ashamed and disgusted, tragic and hilarious and everything in between. I hated them all. I didn't want to hide my face behind a mask.
One day I'll be able to be myself all the time.
Its been a very literary year, but more so now because of Kipling. And thanks to my wife's urgings I'm sinking deeper into Neil Strauss' "The Game" than I first thought possible. The first attempt months ago gave me an impression of gaudiness, a crass sexual deliberation with enough pop-psych instruction to win the heart of anyone frustrated with the 'fucking' enterprise. I couldn't read past the first hundred pages because, well, I couldn't take it's hubris seriously enough to continue, no matter that the author broaches the subject with objectivity and a skeptical humility. Every PUA (pick up artist) was beaming with pride on every page, I thought it laughable, and maybe I didn't want to fall under their spell. How can anyone take the science of picking up girls to have sex with them so earnestly?
Well, I fell under their spell. Even if the entire work was a piece of fiction, which, with the incredible kaleidoscope of characters belying the author's overt journalistic style, it is not, I couldn't deny the plausibility of the odylic force captured and capitalized by these accredited 'artists.' And so it goes that perhaps the last semblance of power gifted to the female gender is now no longer in their hands. Its enough to put prostitution out of business.
The pudendal PUAs in The Game are not exactly the heroic men of action in Kipling, but they have passion and they're recklessly committed to a methodology, an easy devotion to a means to their end. Above all they are possessed by a boyhood curiosity. Its their charm. It hints adventure and discovery without the hangups of adult self-consciousness. It's sexy. It's alluring. It's also the base for the edifice of The Game. Strauss speaks of animal magnetism but its only boyish charm. Boys being boys. Thats all it is. And yet I CAN'T PUT IT DOWN. I think I've forgotten how to be a boy.
"'I had a pretty legit boner going on,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'You know, that kind of rock-hardness where you get the pre-cum dabbing your Underoos.'
'I know. Do go on.'"
The entertainment value alone is enough...
Speaking of passion and reckless commitment, Tony Wilson passed away about two weeks ago. He was my hero and my inspiration for so long. To so many he was a grand old twat, but to me, in my life he was one of my favorite twats of all time. Rest in peace Tony, and be at ease.
I saw some friends last weekend. I've missed them immensely. Its so hard to say. I don't want to miss anyone.
My neck hurts. I smother Jera in awkward positions in my sleep and I pay for it in the morning. We had the best time yesterday, sitting around and reading and crocheting and talking and NOT drinking. I love her to death for letting me be myself. For too long I've let my masks wear me, I think.
Thu, Jul. 12th, 2007, 12:40 pm
Woke up, didn't like it. Reset alarm for a half hour and back to the right half of dark and warm bed, the left occupied by recent wife well-sunk in sleep on her side but looking suscpicously awake with a slight smirk on her face so I pretend to sleep and peek occasionally to make sure it isn't a game. Asleep in 65 seconds.
Awake, check email, waggle to toilet, flush, wash, pluck, groom, brush, no reasonable thoughts, habits pulling and pushing and I've made it to the shower, alone with shower motions and fickle shower fancies as slippery as soap, a passing second of regret for something, and then more regret about leaving bed but comfortable predictability of paid work day seeming less ominous and heavy the cleaner I get. Out and dry and comb and sculpt and dress and this is taking too long, I have to pack a lunch and I need to snuggle her good-bye. Remember, remember, pack shirt, pack boca, pack bread, take phone, take book, take gym bag, repeat the thought, remember. Packed. done.
Reconsider pants, fall into pants, slither into bed, cup and hold her with my entire body, kiss her with everything, a little too relentlessly but I don't care and its not embarrassing, she doesn't let me worry. I look for it and I find it. The smile and the whispered whine come quickly and she's five years old again and I'm suddenly her father. Its gone. She's warm and I hate myself for leaving. She smells dark and warm and I'm overcome with jealousy, I think I'm jealous of the bed. I have to leave so I part and I stand by the door five feet away. August sits by the door and looks up. He meows. I meow. He meows. I meow. A minute passes and I run out the door.
Train, train, gotta catch the train.
Its cool, its scent and hobo free. I sit in the shade hoping to sleep the hour away, but I open John Irving and I lose myself. Wish I could read my favorite passage so far to Jera, "Her purposeful little steps...her tight little butt. He knew before she got to the door that she was going to slam it behind her. Eduardo had long ago imagined this about her: she was a woman of tantrums, a veteran door-slammer - as if the big bang that the door made offered her consolation for her diminuativeness. The gardner had a dread of small women; he'd always imagined them to have an anger disporportionate to their size. His own wife was large and comfortingly soft; she was a good-natured woman with a generous, forgiving disposition." Reminded me of Monthy Python's The Holy Grail, where the father describes the wife, "She's rich, she's beautiful, she's got. . . huge tracts of land. . . "
Train paranoia sets in momentarily. I look around, make sure no one is looking at me. Get back to reading. Passenger sits next to me. I'm absolutely repulsed and I want to jump up and run to another seat. I calm down and continue reading. Stop arrives, I excuse myself and exit, run down the station platform, sprint up the escalator, jog the short path thru the turnstile, hussle up second escalator, attempt to catch bus to shave 2 minutes but no bus in sight, power-walk to building, rampage up third escalator and board the elevator with three suits expounding on the importance of fast-food chain cleanliness to each other. I'm full of woe at not having waited for another, more empty elevator. I'm not ready for the public yet. They smell sweet and important. They're well oiled machines. I'm in jeans and a hoody. I'm loving it like some small victory.
Clock in, change into work clothes, run to bathroom and compose myself. All the running has woken me up. To the kitchen now, make my lunch, grab a coffee and to the desk. Email, email, eat, and I find myself absolutely free of work all day, so I pop in 9Songs before I netflix it back to wherever it came from. Recommended by labelle77, I'm in the middle of it when I pause and I write to life partner lady, "Porno at the office? How kitsch! Anyway, watching 9Songs now. Its about rock and sex and drugs and heartbreak. More like rock=sex=drugs=heartbreak, which is just a tired story but why not set the table for all four and throw a dinner party! By the way, rock comes first. Its the adolescent puberty phase of potential maturity, like kubler-ross but much less pedantic. Boy has pouty good looks and long/thick genital probiscus, girl has pouty androgynous sex appeal with the ass of a 16 year old gymnast. The movie's a little embarrassing because its unnecessarily dramatic and the music and the sex aren't seminal at all, just empty and pretty, so I'll return it today unless you REALLY want to see it." The music IS good tho, I love SFA and am glad to see them in the movie, and other bands aren't bad either. But still, very empty. I think that's the point, and the anarctic metaphor isn't bad either. [Sudden passing thought, that musical period was incredibly posh and pouty. As is paris hilton. but what begot what? whatever]
Jera instant messages. I guess she's off to the gym because she leaves me hanging. Log onto livejoural, look through messages. Realize old acquaintences still befriended, so I unfriend and feel liberated and recognize it as a very bad but very crucial habit. Sudden liberation sprouts sudden need to write, so I write about nothing. Saddened by lack of intelligent thought but gladdened by invention.
Tue, May. 1st, 2007, 05:53 pm
I'm seriously heartbroken. My heart goes out to her, but its not enough, I just can't do enough, and it hurts so much. She gave her 2 weeks notice last Monday before her brother died. Can you believe that when she called last Thursday to request a couple days off, they told her not to bother coming back at all? Absolutely NO sympathy, just a blunt, deadpan, cynical grunt from a company that drove her to tears because she felt like she could never do well enough by them, but nevertheless worked her ass off trying to earn their respect. And she needed this workweek, she needed the couple hundred dollars, and they took it away from her. And I doubt under these extenuating circumstances that they can be held legally responsible, because they're too small a company to be restricted to FMLA regulation. So that leaves her with not only the grief of her brother's death but now this supposed accusation that she was lying to get out of work.
People can be fucking assholes.
So we went by her work today to confront the person in charge, unfortunately they weren't there so we took a prayer card from the funeral and put it in an envelope with a letter asking for unemployment insurance information and expounding a small sliver of the unnecessary pain they'd caused her, but it wasn't enough and I wish someone was there today to scream at, to hurt. It's unbelievable what they'd done. Jera's already a very sensitive person. They didn't care.
I know that she will be okay. She has so much support, but there just isn't enough to fix things and there never will be. I feel that she may never heal from this because she will never want to. The violence of this death is impossible to forget and it will haunt her and change her, and I think it takes a great deal of ignorance to 'accept' a suicide, but she is in no way ignorant nor is she forgiving of herself.
She isn't always entirely aware of what a beautiful person she is or how deeply and intimately she can love everything around her. What does a wound like this do to the beauty inside a person? Will it fester? Will it scab?
She wasn't there when it happened. Will she be so determined to relive what it could've been like by watching her younger brother die again and again, or will she ever accept that she cannot change what's happened? A part of her is dead now and other parts are bleeding. I love her and I hope that she heals. I hope her beauty survives.
So are the ambitions of our lives. What's less perceived and analyzed are our everyday toss-away rhetorical absent-minded wishes, the fun-house-mirror-reflections of whatever dreams were closest to our hearts during our salad days, before the ranch and caesar rendered us pariahs. I'm consciously aware of it, my mind blinded by the cataract of commercialism, an ancient idea made vulgar by the media, by its juxtaposition with relentless ads for consumption: I must look good to feel good.
I'm beginning to look good, and I certainly feel all right, but my ambitions are nowhere to be found. The sudden and all-consuming need to succeed in something and everything is suddenly benign and I've become a vicious proponent of leisure and habit like a pensioned geriatric. I cook and I clean and I exercise and I love and everything that I've ever wanted I can find within arm's reach. There's no need to go any farther than arm's reach. My need is missing, its become equivocal, or I've been shell-shocked by failure, or perhaps I've overestimated my desires. I've gone from being the protagonist to a secondary character in the story of my life. I'm bothered but only slightly. I'm at a loss. How do I desire again? I hate being comfortable. I want to shake the boat, maybe my inner child might fall overboard and be born-again in the baptismal waters of inspiration. Or something.
Wed, Feb. 28th, 2007, 11:10 am
Which Queer As Folk Character Are You?
You're Brian. You sleep around a lot, but care a lot about one of your partners. Unfortunetly not enough to start a relationship. You are very open minded and will try anything. You can be pretty irresponsible sometimes, but in the end you are always there for the ones you care about. You are also very successful, but dream of bigger and better places.
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