Opera Night
I might have some night blindness. In a way, it is almost romantic. I can sit down in an Irish pub, on my own, on the night of the pera, and find it impossible to identify features on anyone more than fifteen feet away. That isn't romantic? Sure it is. It makes anything possible. What is more romantic than that? You know how dimly lit pubs are, and this one is very dim indeed. The lightbulbs that are on are at about half or 1/3 power, and they're all recessed way up in the arches of the ceiling. The net effect is that of indirect candlelight, made more convincing by the flame that flickers just past my hands without providing much of a change in light intensity. The ball of light formed by the candle is no more than two inches on either side, it seems compressed by the cleverness of their lighting.
As I was being shown to my seat, I passed two good looking girls at a table. I briefly hoped that I would be seated near them, driven by the thought that I could strike up a conversation while I waited for my food. At the very least I would hav esomething to look at while I waited. Now I am writing instead. I cannot say that I am dissappointed by the outcome.
That seems to be the way we work though. Or the way I work. Wild flights of fancy, rapidly revised downward until their feet are firmly planted again, on the ground.
Speaking of wild flights, I thought for a moment that my scribbling might be taken for that of a restaurant critic, and that was a fun twenty seconds. Perhaps I will maintain my suspension of disbelief. The wine I drink is "eaglehawk" shiraz from Wolf Blass. I think. And the presentation of this chicken curry is wonderful. They have made a bowl out of papadum and put it on a bed of basmati rice. The bowl almost matches the shape of the porcelain that the whole thing rests in, and since I asked them to punch it up a little, the curry is nicely spiced. The bowl looked significant when I started, but now I realize that would be an understatement. I have already eaten more than enough but I have another glass of wine here, and I refuse to leave any of this mango/banana chutney for throwing out. Also I don't feel like carrying a doggy bag.
There is something uniquely pleasant about dining out, alone, so long as it isn't because you have nothing better to do, so long as it isn't because the world should beel sorry for you. So long as you smile. This is your chance to talk to the serving staff, to talk to people at neighbouring tables whom you have never seen before, and will never see again. This is your chance, and you should take it because there is no reason to.
There is nothing to make you talk, which is why you should. No pressure, no expectation that a conversation will be started. That means you can just say 'hi' and nothing more for the rest of the meal, or you can smile and nod. Or you can keep interjecting until the party at the next table tactfully (or not) decides to take their leave of the place, forsaking the mouthwatering possibilities of dessert. Without the customary coffee that so regularly washes down their hamburgers, fine pastas, juicy steak, or eggplant quiche. Or you could not.
But what the hell.
That is how every easy decision should end. That is how every hard decision should start. Let it interrupt your thoughts and don't hold it back. When you're weighing the options and it sneaks up on you, let it out. What you say is "I want to go to the movies, but I should go to Longos instead, because they're having a sale on rice," but you might want to consider fixing that. "I want to go to the movies but... what the hell"
This is the kind of thing you should practice. Say it over and over again until it becomes second nature to you. Until it appears in your dreams and nightmares of being stuck in a cubicle all your life are transmogrified by your dreaming scream and your self-imagined-self tells your stories, laughs at jokes and does as much work outside the cubicle as in.
Don juan was insecure and needed to be validated. That's the don juan without capitals, the one who has another name. The categorical don juan. There is a place where the letters of his name and yours can be added up and found equal. There is a place where you and he are the same. You need not be male to share this monicker.
But he is not built of "what the hell." The sexual love, the one built only out of conquests has no idea what it means to say those words. Those words make your decision easier, though maybe not easier to live with. THAT personhas no choices. It is an imperative. If you want this you must do that. You want to make yourself feel wanted, you must make your conquests.
He doesn't know. You can't make yourself feel wanted, you can only build up a list of people who want you (or wanted you). It is a sexual hume who declares "no number of conquests can make you someone everyone wants"
Don't be fooled by the Don. The Don is trying to change others, to change their opinion of himself. The Don is a fool who holds a torch up to a mirror, warping the glass to morph his own face, expecting the transformation to hold when the mirror is taken away. You cannot be happy with yourself by convincing others that they should be happy with you. You can only be happy with yourself because you are who you want to be, you are who you are. Appearances are decieving, but your own appearance will never truly fool you for a moment. You'll know it is true when you flee from the mirror. Of course you might be too scared or too stubborn to look again.
That's how we got half of our hermits. Our Boo Radleys. The ghost who lives next door is ultimately scary because he scares himself.
As I was being shown to my seat, I passed two good looking girls at a table. I briefly hoped that I would be seated near them, driven by the thought that I could strike up a conversation while I waited for my food. At the very least I would hav esomething to look at while I waited. Now I am writing instead. I cannot say that I am dissappointed by the outcome.
That seems to be the way we work though. Or the way I work. Wild flights of fancy, rapidly revised downward until their feet are firmly planted again, on the ground.
Speaking of wild flights, I thought for a moment that my scribbling might be taken for that of a restaurant critic, and that was a fun twenty seconds. Perhaps I will maintain my suspension of disbelief. The wine I drink is "eaglehawk" shiraz from Wolf Blass. I think. And the presentation of this chicken curry is wonderful. They have made a bowl out of papadum and put it on a bed of basmati rice. The bowl almost matches the shape of the porcelain that the whole thing rests in, and since I asked them to punch it up a little, the curry is nicely spiced. The bowl looked significant when I started, but now I realize that would be an understatement. I have already eaten more than enough but I have another glass of wine here, and I refuse to leave any of this mango/banana chutney for throwing out. Also I don't feel like carrying a doggy bag.
There is something uniquely pleasant about dining out, alone, so long as it isn't because you have nothing better to do, so long as it isn't because the world should beel sorry for you. So long as you smile. This is your chance to talk to the serving staff, to talk to people at neighbouring tables whom you have never seen before, and will never see again. This is your chance, and you should take it because there is no reason to.
There is nothing to make you talk, which is why you should. No pressure, no expectation that a conversation will be started. That means you can just say 'hi' and nothing more for the rest of the meal, or you can smile and nod. Or you can keep interjecting until the party at the next table tactfully (or not) decides to take their leave of the place, forsaking the mouthwatering possibilities of dessert. Without the customary coffee that so regularly washes down their hamburgers, fine pastas, juicy steak, or eggplant quiche. Or you could not.
But what the hell.
That is how every easy decision should end. That is how every hard decision should start. Let it interrupt your thoughts and don't hold it back. When you're weighing the options and it sneaks up on you, let it out. What you say is "I want to go to the movies, but I should go to Longos instead, because they're having a sale on rice," but you might want to consider fixing that. "I want to go to the movies but... what the hell"
This is the kind of thing you should practice. Say it over and over again until it becomes second nature to you. Until it appears in your dreams and nightmares of being stuck in a cubicle all your life are transmogrified by your dreaming scream and your self-imagined-self tells your stories, laughs at jokes and does as much work outside the cubicle as in.
Don juan was insecure and needed to be validated. That's the don juan without capitals, the one who has another name. The categorical don juan. There is a place where the letters of his name and yours can be added up and found equal. There is a place where you and he are the same. You need not be male to share this monicker.
But he is not built of "what the hell." The sexual love, the one built only out of conquests has no idea what it means to say those words. Those words make your decision easier, though maybe not easier to live with. THAT personhas no choices. It is an imperative. If you want this you must do that. You want to make yourself feel wanted, you must make your conquests.
He doesn't know. You can't make yourself feel wanted, you can only build up a list of people who want you (or wanted you). It is a sexual hume who declares "no number of conquests can make you someone everyone wants"
Don't be fooled by the Don. The Don is trying to change others, to change their opinion of himself. The Don is a fool who holds a torch up to a mirror, warping the glass to morph his own face, expecting the transformation to hold when the mirror is taken away. You cannot be happy with yourself by convincing others that they should be happy with you. You can only be happy with yourself because you are who you want to be, you are who you are. Appearances are decieving, but your own appearance will never truly fool you for a moment. You'll know it is true when you flee from the mirror. Of course you might be too scared or too stubborn to look again.
That's how we got half of our hermits. Our Boo Radleys. The ghost who lives next door is ultimately scary because he scares himself.