One.
Trying to rebound. A lesson in futility.
“You know, I’m doing really well right now. I’m a big fan of life…”
This conversation did not go favorably. And to say that you want to have this type of talk with a woman while your own life is embroiled in the hot, throngs of reinvention would be like actually admitting:
1) your age
2) how many sexual partners you’ve had in your life
And believe me, I’m not into any of that twenty-first century shit right now. I’m drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes, and wearing black. I’m sitting on the edge of a fountain that is overloaded with dry ice for “affect,” surrounded by a cacophony of tattoos, body piercing, and hair dye, do you really think that I’m here for a nice cup of optimism? No. I’m that guy who is sitting there, talking to you, hoping to find some kind of common thread in pain and despair, which would most likely lead to making out, or better yet, totally naked, mutual regret. I want to have that depressing conversation where we both air out our issues, walk the fine line of co-dependence, and use our break-ups as pick up lines. I want you to be damaged, because I have no capacity of comprehension for your happiness. And while I’m being completely honest, I also know that I have zero capacity for the totally naked, mutual regret part…Who am I kidding? I’m an over-thinking, self-depreciating, Richard Lewis clone in a Gentile’s body.
“My boyfriend lives in Sweden, but we have an open relationship…”
Sweden???? Is this how the dating scene has evolved since my last episode of near drowning? Are we now using excuses that are such blatant excuses that the veil has been completely torn off of male/female interaction? I understand we just met, and your life is beyond rainbows and unicorns, but are you already setting boundaries three minutes into a conversation? Are we already playing games? Or are you already trying to impress me with leprechauns and seashells, AND your physical/sexual abilities that are so heralded that men in Sweden will lose their asses in international calling plans, just so they can fuck you twice a year? Regardless, I’m sensing that there is no part of me that is ready for this, to close the door on Her, or the idealizing that I incessantly rain down upon recollections of Her. Love for the sake of time is one thing, but when that time was spent single-handedly doing things that were geared towards sharpening your emotional bond, undoing/ separating yourself from that bond is akin to tearing off a limb. And staring at ruby red haired girls with Swedish boyfriends isn’t providing the right torque upon any appendage.
“I’m a Producer….”
It was at this point where I started to drift into an internal dialogue with myself. I watched her lips move, her smiles, her business card, but none of it made any sound. Everything was silent. I didn’t care that she was a producer, or that she wanted to talk financiers or distributors. Or that her film was a comedy about some Gothic adults who take a road trip from New Orleans to LA. What I was thinking was how detached I had quickly become. Not because of her choice of subject matter, or her Swedish lover - it was because we both were human beings at different square roots in space/time. It was the moment that was foreign, not her. She was a conversationalist, and her lips moved with skill, her mind was sharp, and her words were well chosen. To most men, she would have been fascinating, but to me she was non-existent. I wasn’t there, and subsequently felt nothing. She was conversing with a ghost.
I, like most men who have just emerged from a long term relationship, am guilty of talking a lot of game. Release the hounds and prepare for mayhem. Yet, when I appear from a shower, when I walk to the closet to decide upon that evening’s single man’s uniform, I am acutely aware that the chrysalis I have shed is not one that I was ready to lose, so therefore whatever skin that exists is raw. I see my sex try and work through their pain by fucking, plowing through as many women as possible, hoping that the parade of new voices screaming, calling out their name will drown out the insecurities that howl, growl, and hum. I see my sex indulge the animal to ignore the person, and it makes me sick inside. I desperately want to feel, to be physical again. To be consciously wild. Both spotless and dirty. To be unaffected, to make out, to pull hair, and whisper deliciously nasty verbs north of a woman’s earlobe. I would gladly flash those incisors, but I struggle to find the knowledge, the instinct of how to intelligently begin. The Id, I’m afraid, has to be rediscovered.
Saturday nights in Hollywood may boast the right intentions, so I salute you - whatever your name is- Producer. I know you are younger, that your idealism still may be somewhat in tact, while mine is held up with toothpicks and aluminum foil. I understand that patience is the lesson in this pain so I’ll keep putting on the suit coat and pretend to be interested. I hope your Swedish lesson works out, and financiers rain money down on you and your gothic roadtrippers. While I try and figure out a way to remove Her face from all the lipsticked mouths, her voice from the echoes.
To quote Mikey from The Goonies, "It all starts here..."
“You know, I’m doing really well right now. I’m a big fan of life…”
This conversation did not go favorably. And to say that you want to have this type of talk with a woman while your own life is embroiled in the hot, throngs of reinvention would be like actually admitting:
1) your age
2) how many sexual partners you’ve had in your life
And believe me, I’m not into any of that twenty-first century shit right now. I’m drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes, and wearing black. I’m sitting on the edge of a fountain that is overloaded with dry ice for “affect,” surrounded by a cacophony of tattoos, body piercing, and hair dye, do you really think that I’m here for a nice cup of optimism? No. I’m that guy who is sitting there, talking to you, hoping to find some kind of common thread in pain and despair, which would most likely lead to making out, or better yet, totally naked, mutual regret. I want to have that depressing conversation where we both air out our issues, walk the fine line of co-dependence, and use our break-ups as pick up lines. I want you to be damaged, because I have no capacity of comprehension for your happiness. And while I’m being completely honest, I also know that I have zero capacity for the totally naked, mutual regret part…Who am I kidding? I’m an over-thinking, self-depreciating, Richard Lewis clone in a Gentile’s body.
“My boyfriend lives in Sweden, but we have an open relationship…”
Sweden???? Is this how the dating scene has evolved since my last episode of near drowning? Are we now using excuses that are such blatant excuses that the veil has been completely torn off of male/female interaction? I understand we just met, and your life is beyond rainbows and unicorns, but are you already setting boundaries three minutes into a conversation? Are we already playing games? Or are you already trying to impress me with leprechauns and seashells, AND your physical/sexual abilities that are so heralded that men in Sweden will lose their asses in international calling plans, just so they can fuck you twice a year? Regardless, I’m sensing that there is no part of me that is ready for this, to close the door on Her, or the idealizing that I incessantly rain down upon recollections of Her. Love for the sake of time is one thing, but when that time was spent single-handedly doing things that were geared towards sharpening your emotional bond, undoing/ separating yourself from that bond is akin to tearing off a limb. And staring at ruby red haired girls with Swedish boyfriends isn’t providing the right torque upon any appendage.
“I’m a Producer….”
It was at this point where I started to drift into an internal dialogue with myself. I watched her lips move, her smiles, her business card, but none of it made any sound. Everything was silent. I didn’t care that she was a producer, or that she wanted to talk financiers or distributors. Or that her film was a comedy about some Gothic adults who take a road trip from New Orleans to LA. What I was thinking was how detached I had quickly become. Not because of her choice of subject matter, or her Swedish lover - it was because we both were human beings at different square roots in space/time. It was the moment that was foreign, not her. She was a conversationalist, and her lips moved with skill, her mind was sharp, and her words were well chosen. To most men, she would have been fascinating, but to me she was non-existent. I wasn’t there, and subsequently felt nothing. She was conversing with a ghost.
I, like most men who have just emerged from a long term relationship, am guilty of talking a lot of game. Release the hounds and prepare for mayhem. Yet, when I appear from a shower, when I walk to the closet to decide upon that evening’s single man’s uniform, I am acutely aware that the chrysalis I have shed is not one that I was ready to lose, so therefore whatever skin that exists is raw. I see my sex try and work through their pain by fucking, plowing through as many women as possible, hoping that the parade of new voices screaming, calling out their name will drown out the insecurities that howl, growl, and hum. I see my sex indulge the animal to ignore the person, and it makes me sick inside. I desperately want to feel, to be physical again. To be consciously wild. Both spotless and dirty. To be unaffected, to make out, to pull hair, and whisper deliciously nasty verbs north of a woman’s earlobe. I would gladly flash those incisors, but I struggle to find the knowledge, the instinct of how to intelligently begin. The Id, I’m afraid, has to be rediscovered.
Saturday nights in Hollywood may boast the right intentions, so I salute you - whatever your name is- Producer. I know you are younger, that your idealism still may be somewhat in tact, while mine is held up with toothpicks and aluminum foil. I understand that patience is the lesson in this pain so I’ll keep putting on the suit coat and pretend to be interested. I hope your Swedish lesson works out, and financiers rain money down on you and your gothic roadtrippers. While I try and figure out a way to remove Her face from all the lipsticked mouths, her voice from the echoes.
To quote Mikey from The Goonies, "It all starts here..."