if you can't live in the moment, you can't live.
so many mistakes, or so you think...but they're not mistakes, they are lessons, constant.
litmus tests.
i could, we could, all of us, second guess, but that's the ruse, that's the challenge. I may have burned plastic in the fireplace tonight which is not the best of head gas experiences but it was a small christmas tree with a plastic base and wow does my house smell not great...and but hello motrin.
every single experience is an opportunity to reset re-ask re-think.
nothing is a mistake.
how do you like them apples?
no mistakes, none.
everything is what you need it to be.
your bitterness is your mirror. or i should say the mirror is your window.
there is said it.
the mirror is the window.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Initial Separation
I’m holed up in my studio. I’m a music producer and I built a post production suite over my garage. Normally at this hour I would be watching TV. But I don’t watch TV anymore. I used to watch so much, and each night was in part about what I would watch that night. And I would sit and drink and watch them. I could never get used to how soon 11pm came. Because then, nothing was on, and then I was chasing the dragon, anything but going to the marriage bed, that abyss of unrequited emotion.
And eventually, drunk and relatively painless, I had to go to bed where she lay, asleep, yet palpably resentful of a man who could not provide for her. Now, I realize that I did not provide for her in ways it never occurred to me to do so. Or her for me. Even in sleep, I felt the cold coming off her. That bed was like a coffin, without the peace. A prison, without ever really being convicted. No official verdict, but the sentence was life nonetheless. I guess the jury finally walked in now though. Not guilty, by reason of an insanity born of and cultivated by ennui.
She says she wants me to try and find someone else, and she is convinced she is not the love of my life. I don’t know if she is right, how could I? Love of your life? I would settle for love of my day.
So we are separated. And trying to put on a good face for our two children. The real loves of my life. And every moment feels alternatively like ascension and demise. But mostly, demise.
I’m holed up in my studio. I’m a music producer and I built a post production suite over my garage. Normally at this hour I would be watching TV. But I don’t watch TV anymore. I used to watch so much, and each night was in part about what I would watch that night. And I would sit and drink and watch them. I could never get used to how soon 11pm came. Because then, nothing was on, and then I was chasing the dragon, anything but going to the marriage bed, that abyss of unrequited emotion.
And eventually, drunk and relatively painless, I had to go to bed where she lay, asleep, yet palpably resentful of a man who could not provide for her. Now, I realize that I did not provide for her in ways it never occurred to me to do so. Or her for me. Even in sleep, I felt the cold coming off her. That bed was like a coffin, without the peace. A prison, without ever really being convicted. No official verdict, but the sentence was life nonetheless. I guess the jury finally walked in now though. Not guilty, by reason of an insanity born of and cultivated by ennui.
She says she wants me to try and find someone else, and she is convinced she is not the love of my life. I don’t know if she is right, how could I? Love of your life? I would settle for love of my day.
So we are separated. And trying to put on a good face for our two children. The real loves of my life. And every moment feels alternatively like ascension and demise. But mostly, demise.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Troublesome Truck
I’m a troublesome truck, you’ve done nothing wrong Thomas, you’re still a very useful
engine, but I was born with furrowed brow, and the need to run you off the tracks, and
may be, you needed all along, to be derailed and forced off, by the likes of me, off your
safe, shiny, go nowhere rails. I’ll see you at the quarry, I mean no harm. I have to
somehow let you go now, you pull away, I’ll push. I’ll look into your beautiful green
eyes that once adored me, and stay with you, in your eyes, as you steam away.
The Sadness Calendar
Some days are earmarked for sadness. It seems to me there is some schedule I am unaware of that dictates what will be a good day and what will be a terrible day. I think there must be some cosmic schedule. I don’t want to see it though, would you? It would include the day the love died, the day you found out you had breast cancer or the day you realized your parents were closing in on death. The calendar of the future, if you could glance at it, would have a date on it when you watched you aging father hobble to a chair and ask for his scotch refilled for hours on end. Unending hours. There would be a date and time on this calendar that you first realized your mother more closely resembles your grandmother, an aging decaying relic, holding on, because of a non existent alternative, and she is confused and tired. Most disturbingly however is watching her in servitude to a more immediate victim; her time ravaged betrothed. My father, the icon, literally fading away before my eyes. Shrinking, drinking and waiting. Playing out his hand. Playing the cards he was dealt? No, I think not. HE did not choose wisely. He gave up too soon. He waited to see what was around the corner instead of choosing which corner he wanted to turn. I love him, I love my father, I love my mother, but I can’t repeat them, I can’t be like them. They sit, and commiserate, and go over the days events. What events? They drink Cutty Sark of all things by the fucking gallon and talk about I can’t imaging what.
I can’t be like them, or like the old me for that matter. I am a reeling vessel in space with no connection whatsoever to what or where I’m supposed to be. I am Major Tom, lost in space. I’m the chimp stabbing at a short circuited control panel. I’m waiting out my air supply in my strapping white and orange space suit, running out of O2, running out of answers, running out of the will to live. Let me go gracefully though, not like the elderly, not like the common folk, not like a shadow with a bottle of air, a plastic mask on my face, a diaper on my torso, iron wheels with rubber tires and a colostomy bag like a spoiler in the back. Let me lead me not to the fiscally prudent brown tinted macaroni and cheese in the cafeteria of the assisted living half way house to inevitability. Save me Jesus? I wish. Save me me.
But how?
How?
I’m a troublesome truck, you’ve done nothing wrong Thomas, you’re still a very useful
engine, but I was born with furrowed brow, and the need to run you off the tracks, and
may be, you needed all along, to be derailed and forced off, by the likes of me, off your
safe, shiny, go nowhere rails. I’ll see you at the quarry, I mean no harm. I have to
somehow let you go now, you pull away, I’ll push. I’ll look into your beautiful green
eyes that once adored me, and stay with you, in your eyes, as you steam away.
The Sadness Calendar
Some days are earmarked for sadness. It seems to me there is some schedule I am unaware of that dictates what will be a good day and what will be a terrible day. I think there must be some cosmic schedule. I don’t want to see it though, would you? It would include the day the love died, the day you found out you had breast cancer or the day you realized your parents were closing in on death. The calendar of the future, if you could glance at it, would have a date on it when you watched you aging father hobble to a chair and ask for his scotch refilled for hours on end. Unending hours. There would be a date and time on this calendar that you first realized your mother more closely resembles your grandmother, an aging decaying relic, holding on, because of a non existent alternative, and she is confused and tired. Most disturbingly however is watching her in servitude to a more immediate victim; her time ravaged betrothed. My father, the icon, literally fading away before my eyes. Shrinking, drinking and waiting. Playing out his hand. Playing the cards he was dealt? No, I think not. HE did not choose wisely. He gave up too soon. He waited to see what was around the corner instead of choosing which corner he wanted to turn. I love him, I love my father, I love my mother, but I can’t repeat them, I can’t be like them. They sit, and commiserate, and go over the days events. What events? They drink Cutty Sark of all things by the fucking gallon and talk about I can’t imaging what.
I can’t be like them, or like the old me for that matter. I am a reeling vessel in space with no connection whatsoever to what or where I’m supposed to be. I am Major Tom, lost in space. I’m the chimp stabbing at a short circuited control panel. I’m waiting out my air supply in my strapping white and orange space suit, running out of O2, running out of answers, running out of the will to live. Let me go gracefully though, not like the elderly, not like the common folk, not like a shadow with a bottle of air, a plastic mask on my face, a diaper on my torso, iron wheels with rubber tires and a colostomy bag like a spoiler in the back. Let me lead me not to the fiscally prudent brown tinted macaroni and cheese in the cafeteria of the assisted living half way house to inevitability. Save me Jesus? I wish. Save me me.
But how?
How?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Q20
I had some idle time in my little doll house here in Chick. Self induced. I forced myself to stop thinking for a little bit. I drank a couple of Corona lights, and was in the bathroom pissing, and as I stood pissing into the clean white porcelain bowl, I was eye level with a device my son had left here; it’s called the Q20.
It is a small red orb that fits in the palm of your hand.
It is essentially a modern day equivalent of the magic 8 ball. It’s electronic; it in theory will guess a thought in your head within twenty questions. Guess what? It’s right 90% of the time.
It has guessed snot, grass, vomit, a giraffe, cement, the sky, an arm, a hand, a corpse.
So I, on my “break” from “thinking”, I asked it to guess something.
It starts, on its digital display, by asking:
Animal, vegetable, mineral, or other?
I put other.
Is it flat? I put no.
Is it hard? I put sometimes.
Could it be found in a classroom? I put yes.
Can you play with it? I could go on and on about this, but I put no.
Can you put something into it? No.
Does it use electricity? I struggled, but entered no.
Is it found in a desk? No.
Does it shine? Oh yes, it shines.
Does it come in a box? Women seem to think so, but I put no.
Do you hold it when you use it? I have to say no. But I have.
Is it smaller than a loaf of bread? Not applicable, so no.
Is it manufactured? Well, you certainly have me there. But I will have to say no.
Is it heavier than a pound of butter? Again, N.A. no.
Is it something you bring along? I must say, sometimes.
Do you use it at work? Use it? No.
Is it small? Absolutely not.
Is it usually visible? Oh yes.
Would you use it daily? Would I? You mean do I? Oddly put, so no.
Does it bring joy to people? Yes with a capital Y.
Then its 20 questions are up and it takes its guess.
Is it a rainbow?
Sadly, how close you are my little plastic friend but no.
Then it asks:
May I have five more guesses?
Of course, go ahead.
Is it heavy? Let’s not over think, so no.
Does it live outside? Way off, no. It’s not going to get it.
Can you find it in a church? Uh Oh, shit, what the fuck? Yes.
Do most people use this daily? Yes, yes they do.
And then the last question stopped me in my tracks.
Can it bend without breaking?
Oh fuck. What the fuck. What the fucking fuck. Of course it can, it’s what it does, it’s what makes it what it is that is nothing else, and so I answered, yes.
And then it asked me, this little plastic thing, it’s LED blinking and struggling to complete its task from a lack of battery power, it asked me;
Is it love?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
It got it. Fucking love.
And then a funny thing happened, it broke. It made a weird high pitched squealing sound and I couldn’t stop it so I had to put it outside in the pouring rain. Sorry.
It blew up. I’m not making this up. It short circuited. Most assuredly a silly coincidence, but you know, still.
My little funny plastic red orb. I didn’t mean to break you.
But then, love broke me too.
I had some idle time in my little doll house here in Chick. Self induced. I forced myself to stop thinking for a little bit. I drank a couple of Corona lights, and was in the bathroom pissing, and as I stood pissing into the clean white porcelain bowl, I was eye level with a device my son had left here; it’s called the Q20.
It is a small red orb that fits in the palm of your hand.
It is essentially a modern day equivalent of the magic 8 ball. It’s electronic; it in theory will guess a thought in your head within twenty questions. Guess what? It’s right 90% of the time.
It has guessed snot, grass, vomit, a giraffe, cement, the sky, an arm, a hand, a corpse.
So I, on my “break” from “thinking”, I asked it to guess something.
It starts, on its digital display, by asking:
Animal, vegetable, mineral, or other?
I put other.
Is it flat? I put no.
Is it hard? I put sometimes.
Could it be found in a classroom? I put yes.
Can you play with it? I could go on and on about this, but I put no.
Can you put something into it? No.
Does it use electricity? I struggled, but entered no.
Is it found in a desk? No.
Does it shine? Oh yes, it shines.
Does it come in a box? Women seem to think so, but I put no.
Do you hold it when you use it? I have to say no. But I have.
Is it smaller than a loaf of bread? Not applicable, so no.
Is it manufactured? Well, you certainly have me there. But I will have to say no.
Is it heavier than a pound of butter? Again, N.A. no.
Is it something you bring along? I must say, sometimes.
Do you use it at work? Use it? No.
Is it small? Absolutely not.
Is it usually visible? Oh yes.
Would you use it daily? Would I? You mean do I? Oddly put, so no.
Does it bring joy to people? Yes with a capital Y.
Then its 20 questions are up and it takes its guess.
Is it a rainbow?
Sadly, how close you are my little plastic friend but no.
Then it asks:
May I have five more guesses?
Of course, go ahead.
Is it heavy? Let’s not over think, so no.
Does it live outside? Way off, no. It’s not going to get it.
Can you find it in a church? Uh Oh, shit, what the fuck? Yes.
Do most people use this daily? Yes, yes they do.
And then the last question stopped me in my tracks.
Can it bend without breaking?
Oh fuck. What the fuck. What the fucking fuck. Of course it can, it’s what it does, it’s what makes it what it is that is nothing else, and so I answered, yes.
And then it asked me, this little plastic thing, it’s LED blinking and struggling to complete its task from a lack of battery power, it asked me;
Is it love?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
It got it. Fucking love.
And then a funny thing happened, it broke. It made a weird high pitched squealing sound and I couldn’t stop it so I had to put it outside in the pouring rain. Sorry.
It blew up. I’m not making this up. It short circuited. Most assuredly a silly coincidence, but you know, still.
My little funny plastic red orb. I didn’t mean to break you.
But then, love broke me too.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Chickawho?
Today I brought my daughter for a visit to the house on View Street in Chickahominy, the badlands. I was supposed to work today but our twice a week nanny called in sick.
My wife as I had said works in the music business also, and she is contracting, which means running the orchestra, which means hiring each player, making sure they show up and calling the breaks and such, (very union), for a new Broadway show musical cast album. So I had my daughter today because there was NO SCHOOL again due to TEACHER CONFERENCES and we went to the other house on the other side of the tracks to lay out a new carpet and hack around. She, and my son, love this house, it has a beautiful vibe. It has a lawn jockey in the front but they painted the face white, the victim of political correctness. He must feel like a fraud, not himself, but I keep rubbing him in the hopes I will eventually rub him back to his self. We call him Buddy, and with each symbiotic stroke I feel he gives me luck in return.
The first thing I did upon entering the abode of dissolution was to go down to the basement and bring my daughters plastic horse up to the little playroom. The same plastic horse I felt so terrible about relegating to the basement days ago. It felt so good to rescue the little fella. These are the little things that make this separation, hardly a word deserving of what is happening to me, these are the things, like rescuing a plastic rocking horse with rusting springs and peeling paint but somehow expressive little plastic painted eyes, these are the things that make me whole. Because I paid attention to my instincts for once in twenty years. I didn’t balk at the idea that it would make any difference at all where this inanimate object would reside. But it makes ALL the difference in the world if I believe it does, and I believe it does.
So he is rescued, and my daughter feels this somehow. We have evolved into disbelievers, into a society that truly believes in nothing, holds nothing accountable, nothing above ourselves, nothing above what we make, what we drive, where we eat, and who we lie to, including ourselves. But I think listening and following some kind of inner voice is the path to quote unquote God. I don’t believe in any ridiculous religion whatsoever, but I do believe in something. Because of and perhaps only because of, the path I had chosen of denying the possibility of finding some sort of connection with the “universe” has been such an abysmal failure for me. This lack of faith has failed for all of us. Our reaction (and mine today as I lunched with Josie at McDonalds), should be one of horror at the waste we are creating, the slaughter of innocent beings, and I love meat, but not at this level. All these little experiences should bring us closer to betterment, not status quoism not more of this, but much, much less. And marriage is not helping this problem. It feeds the insatiable appetite of the dark lord of establishmentarianism and khakis. We are being Entertainment Tonightified, and we are ignoring everything horrible going on in this magnificent world in favor of conformance. I was watching a baseball practice for my sons’ team this afternoon, and I brought a beer. A delicious Corona Light. An interesting phenomenon occurred. The other men, other than the coaches, were dressed in the uniform of moneymaking, not even in different hues of the same theme mind you, there is only the light blue oxford, the dark slacks, and the loafers adorned vindictively it seems to me, with tassels. These men looked at me, in a tee shirt and jeans, enjoying a refreshing and utterly satisfying bevy in a bottle, with some combination of horror and distain. Hadn’t I heard you only drink on the Stamford local in the bar car on the way home? You don’t bring it home, you come here and you get back in line buddy. You get back in character. This is Old Greenwich, and we don’t drink beer at the ballpark. Who are you? What firm are you with? This does not compute. How can YOU be here in a town in which the average cost of shack is two and a half million dollars?
And then there was the reaction from the wives. Because of the apocalypse of my marriage I have been obsessively going to the gym and have also achieved soul wrecked weight loss, and I look as good as I ever have, better in fact, but now, there’s a mojo going on, and it wasn’t there before. Because I stopped caring what these people think of me. Sweet freedom, thy name is change. I was watching my son, but my friend Vinny was watching the women. He pulled me aside and whispered for me to glance over at them occasionally, and I saw it. I am finally a bad boy again. I have come home. I don’t belong, and now I don’t care.
The Institution
I had my son for a sleep over at the billet de disjuncture last night. We had another perfectly awesome time. We watched Jackass Number Two with Johnny Knoxville and laughed our asses off. At one point I felt like asking him if he wanted a beer, I really felt like I was hanging out with my friend, what a feeling. I took him home to Moneyville and decided to take him and my daughter for the day. We went to Wendy’s, where my neighbor here in Chickahominy works and we got free frosty’s. It just doesn’t get better than that my friends. Then an old friend took us all out sailing and we froze our balls off, but had a great time. I didn’t think about my wife very much, other than to wonder if she was feeling what it would really be like if I was permanently gone and we started joint custody. Which of course, is a distinct possibility. Now I am back here wondering what has become of my life. My wife must think, for some inexplicable reason, given all the evidence to the contrary, that you are some prize I can’t afford. You don’t want me? You are so desirable because why? You deserve my obsession because you….what again? I forgot. You are so sexy because, wait, I forgot, why? I’m not desirable because why? I fucking forgot. I want you because wait, I forgot, why? And you, don’t want me anymore because why? I fucking forgot. You know what? Are you kidding me? I don’t have someone who wants me yet, and until then, this will be harder for me than you. But come the day, when someone loves me not in a complicated way, not in the twenty years of bullshit way, but for what I am, it will be a good day.
I have never in my life let a woman or a man get the better of me, and now, at what seems to me to be the end of my life, am not going to start.
Mae West once said “marriage is a great institution; I’m just not ready for an institution yet”. Could it be that at the inception of marriage it was a good idea because two thousand years ago when marriage was “invented” in the traditional Christian sense, people only lived until they were twenty five?
Now we live to seventy five, and the marriage has to endure many more years than when it was first introduced. Today my son asked my estranged wife when Daddy was going to be moving back. This is a first. He has to this point expressed only pleasure at my occupancy at the End of the line Motel. But now he is getting hip to the reality. My wife told me about this conversation I was not privy to and sold it to me with a positive twist. “I think you just need to put him to bed more, otherwise, I think he’s fine”. She is now buying the crap she is selling. Any good dealer knows you don’t do your own product. The truth is, and I know it is, is that he is starting to feel the burn. And there is no Clinton like spin control that can clean this thing up and make it go away. Eventually, this man needs to be told the truth. What’s that you say? What is the truth? I‘d be happy to tell you. We’ll almost certainly never live together again because mommy and daddy are not IN love with each other any more. My wife walks around in a happy fog, enjoying the best parts of this separation, well, I think we’re about to hit a serious pot hole. I think she thinks she’s driving a hummer, equipped with stabilizer control, side curtain air bags, and a roll bar. But we’re in a broken down Honda Civic we bought from a drunken preacher from Atlanta, giving us the marital benediction while stinking profusely of Wild Turkey. This thing is gonna hit this pothole and the axle is gonna break like a thin twig in January underneath a fat red neck’s hunting boot. We’ll keep driving, but eventually, I hope, she will notice the old jalopy is on fire, and we had better egress, my love, for we will burn inside this vehicle forged from bad workmanship and delusion. Buy American! Get married! Die! Everything is fine, the kids are fine, this is a period of growth! Yay! Well, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, a worm needs to die before he gives his body to become soil. So how much of this marriage is the dying worm, the cycle of life? How much of this new awareness will be born from death? And what exactly will die to give life? I fear, my friends, that you don’t get something for nothing, I just have to make sure that the life cycle isn’t going to take my children’s confidence to exact payment for our adult “growth cycle”. And I seem to be the only one starting to wonder if this gamble with their little souls is worth the price of the admission to enlightenment. I’m pretty good at poker, but then again, that’s largely due to my ability to bluff.
Today I brought my daughter for a visit to the house on View Street in Chickahominy, the badlands. I was supposed to work today but our twice a week nanny called in sick.
My wife as I had said works in the music business also, and she is contracting, which means running the orchestra, which means hiring each player, making sure they show up and calling the breaks and such, (very union), for a new Broadway show musical cast album. So I had my daughter today because there was NO SCHOOL again due to TEACHER CONFERENCES and we went to the other house on the other side of the tracks to lay out a new carpet and hack around. She, and my son, love this house, it has a beautiful vibe. It has a lawn jockey in the front but they painted the face white, the victim of political correctness. He must feel like a fraud, not himself, but I keep rubbing him in the hopes I will eventually rub him back to his self. We call him Buddy, and with each symbiotic stroke I feel he gives me luck in return.
The first thing I did upon entering the abode of dissolution was to go down to the basement and bring my daughters plastic horse up to the little playroom. The same plastic horse I felt so terrible about relegating to the basement days ago. It felt so good to rescue the little fella. These are the little things that make this separation, hardly a word deserving of what is happening to me, these are the things, like rescuing a plastic rocking horse with rusting springs and peeling paint but somehow expressive little plastic painted eyes, these are the things that make me whole. Because I paid attention to my instincts for once in twenty years. I didn’t balk at the idea that it would make any difference at all where this inanimate object would reside. But it makes ALL the difference in the world if I believe it does, and I believe it does.
So he is rescued, and my daughter feels this somehow. We have evolved into disbelievers, into a society that truly believes in nothing, holds nothing accountable, nothing above ourselves, nothing above what we make, what we drive, where we eat, and who we lie to, including ourselves. But I think listening and following some kind of inner voice is the path to quote unquote God. I don’t believe in any ridiculous religion whatsoever, but I do believe in something. Because of and perhaps only because of, the path I had chosen of denying the possibility of finding some sort of connection with the “universe” has been such an abysmal failure for me. This lack of faith has failed for all of us. Our reaction (and mine today as I lunched with Josie at McDonalds), should be one of horror at the waste we are creating, the slaughter of innocent beings, and I love meat, but not at this level. All these little experiences should bring us closer to betterment, not status quoism not more of this, but much, much less. And marriage is not helping this problem. It feeds the insatiable appetite of the dark lord of establishmentarianism and khakis. We are being Entertainment Tonightified, and we are ignoring everything horrible going on in this magnificent world in favor of conformance. I was watching a baseball practice for my sons’ team this afternoon, and I brought a beer. A delicious Corona Light. An interesting phenomenon occurred. The other men, other than the coaches, were dressed in the uniform of moneymaking, not even in different hues of the same theme mind you, there is only the light blue oxford, the dark slacks, and the loafers adorned vindictively it seems to me, with tassels. These men looked at me, in a tee shirt and jeans, enjoying a refreshing and utterly satisfying bevy in a bottle, with some combination of horror and distain. Hadn’t I heard you only drink on the Stamford local in the bar car on the way home? You don’t bring it home, you come here and you get back in line buddy. You get back in character. This is Old Greenwich, and we don’t drink beer at the ballpark. Who are you? What firm are you with? This does not compute. How can YOU be here in a town in which the average cost of shack is two and a half million dollars?
And then there was the reaction from the wives. Because of the apocalypse of my marriage I have been obsessively going to the gym and have also achieved soul wrecked weight loss, and I look as good as I ever have, better in fact, but now, there’s a mojo going on, and it wasn’t there before. Because I stopped caring what these people think of me. Sweet freedom, thy name is change. I was watching my son, but my friend Vinny was watching the women. He pulled me aside and whispered for me to glance over at them occasionally, and I saw it. I am finally a bad boy again. I have come home. I don’t belong, and now I don’t care.
The Institution
I had my son for a sleep over at the billet de disjuncture last night. We had another perfectly awesome time. We watched Jackass Number Two with Johnny Knoxville and laughed our asses off. At one point I felt like asking him if he wanted a beer, I really felt like I was hanging out with my friend, what a feeling. I took him home to Moneyville and decided to take him and my daughter for the day. We went to Wendy’s, where my neighbor here in Chickahominy works and we got free frosty’s. It just doesn’t get better than that my friends. Then an old friend took us all out sailing and we froze our balls off, but had a great time. I didn’t think about my wife very much, other than to wonder if she was feeling what it would really be like if I was permanently gone and we started joint custody. Which of course, is a distinct possibility. Now I am back here wondering what has become of my life. My wife must think, for some inexplicable reason, given all the evidence to the contrary, that you are some prize I can’t afford. You don’t want me? You are so desirable because why? You deserve my obsession because you….what again? I forgot. You are so sexy because, wait, I forgot, why? I’m not desirable because why? I fucking forgot. I want you because wait, I forgot, why? And you, don’t want me anymore because why? I fucking forgot. You know what? Are you kidding me? I don’t have someone who wants me yet, and until then, this will be harder for me than you. But come the day, when someone loves me not in a complicated way, not in the twenty years of bullshit way, but for what I am, it will be a good day.
I have never in my life let a woman or a man get the better of me, and now, at what seems to me to be the end of my life, am not going to start.
Mae West once said “marriage is a great institution; I’m just not ready for an institution yet”. Could it be that at the inception of marriage it was a good idea because two thousand years ago when marriage was “invented” in the traditional Christian sense, people only lived until they were twenty five?
Now we live to seventy five, and the marriage has to endure many more years than when it was first introduced. Today my son asked my estranged wife when Daddy was going to be moving back. This is a first. He has to this point expressed only pleasure at my occupancy at the End of the line Motel. But now he is getting hip to the reality. My wife told me about this conversation I was not privy to and sold it to me with a positive twist. “I think you just need to put him to bed more, otherwise, I think he’s fine”. She is now buying the crap she is selling. Any good dealer knows you don’t do your own product. The truth is, and I know it is, is that he is starting to feel the burn. And there is no Clinton like spin control that can clean this thing up and make it go away. Eventually, this man needs to be told the truth. What’s that you say? What is the truth? I‘d be happy to tell you. We’ll almost certainly never live together again because mommy and daddy are not IN love with each other any more. My wife walks around in a happy fog, enjoying the best parts of this separation, well, I think we’re about to hit a serious pot hole. I think she thinks she’s driving a hummer, equipped with stabilizer control, side curtain air bags, and a roll bar. But we’re in a broken down Honda Civic we bought from a drunken preacher from Atlanta, giving us the marital benediction while stinking profusely of Wild Turkey. This thing is gonna hit this pothole and the axle is gonna break like a thin twig in January underneath a fat red neck’s hunting boot. We’ll keep driving, but eventually, I hope, she will notice the old jalopy is on fire, and we had better egress, my love, for we will burn inside this vehicle forged from bad workmanship and delusion. Buy American! Get married! Die! Everything is fine, the kids are fine, this is a period of growth! Yay! Well, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, a worm needs to die before he gives his body to become soil. So how much of this marriage is the dying worm, the cycle of life? How much of this new awareness will be born from death? And what exactly will die to give life? I fear, my friends, that you don’t get something for nothing, I just have to make sure that the life cycle isn’t going to take my children’s confidence to exact payment for our adult “growth cycle”. And I seem to be the only one starting to wonder if this gamble with their little souls is worth the price of the admission to enlightenment. I’m pretty good at poker, but then again, that’s largely due to my ability to bluff.
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