Two, days ago, I used here on this site an image of a rainbow over Sonoma. Yesterday, the retelling of two gay friends that have made their carnal and psychic attractions to me known. Now today, I will attempt to avoid the subject of sexuality altogether. Though I just started reading a book, Far From The Tree, which was written by a gay man. So, who knows... perhaps I'll be elucidating on the sweet mystery of man-on-man oral-love by the time it's all over here today.
I am fascinated with the subject of identity, its inherent conflict with persona. I try out various personas here on this site from time to time, in search of a more complete identity, but they never quite fit as I might have wished at their inception, their moment of plausible animation. The exoskeleton of imaginary identity appears too small to always contain its creator, the actual skeletal frame of identity somehow remains too weak to hold up its artifice. I have always felt that I possessed some unknown illness, and while a few descriptions seem to define part of it - dipsomaniac-depressive, habitual to a fault, excessive in defeat, a functioning auto-mechanic - none of those descriptions, nor even all of them taken in total seem to satisfy in any complete way the inner sense of frustration and disappointment in the false promise I've found in the world around me.
This resulted in a near complete refusal to grow up, a tendency which still butts up against the expectations of others from time to time. There is at least one person that would likely blame it for our divorce, while I would probably look back even further and blame it for our marriage, or even our love. In fact, her attraction to me was apparently my own undoing. I probably should have known better.
Funny, how those things seem to work. If you wish to know why a person no longer loves you then ask yourself why they ever began. In too many of my relationships the love was a result of me temporarily being able to make something inside of the woman who loved me seem to disappear, often through laughter. Then, one day you realize that you're no longer funny to them, that nothing is.
I have been experimenting with medical marijuana lately, a sort of butter that dissolves into warm tea. It has filled my head with all sorts of good memories, and recurring feelings, some of those not all so good. I am not a regular pot smoker, or haven't been in many years, but the sense of inwardness in the experience has been very welcome. It almost doesn't even feel like the "high" one gets from marijuana, though the tell-tale voice of neurosis and second-guessing makes itself known well enough. I still walk around asking myself if anything that I'm doing or saying make any sense at all. I mean, not just to me, but to the people whose faces are pointed towards me, listening with concern.
I've been sleeping much better than I had been, almost two hours more each night than what would be normal for me, which is of course rejuvenating. I wake up and I feel as if I am still wanted in my bed. There is more for me to accomplish there, and there is no reason at all for me to check my phone, or get on the computer. I just lie there with my eyes either opened or closed and float in the space and silence of my morning life.
Somehow, I have grown to feel okay about being alone. It doesn't bother me so much any more. I am starting to treasure again the time that I have all to myself; to read, to play the guitar, and piano. To listen to the music that I wish to without worrying whether someone else in the room might not like Joni Mitchell as much as I do, or the electric Miles.
Being alone is not so terrible, though nothing quite says I Love You as does a blow job in the morning. Becoming the recipient of one, I mean. I'm sure they are all fine and well to administer, if that becomes your cup of tea and sympathy.
There is something tremendously erotic about women, to me, though it seems clear enough that homosexuality is not the mere absence of that feeling, but its corollary perhaps directed elsewhere.
We are each only permitted to feel what we are capable of feeling, to prefer what we prefer. It is only in choice that we seem free.
I seem to prefer to choose the electric Miles.
Being alone is not so terrible, though nothing quite says I Love You as does a blow job in the morning. Becoming the recipient of one, I mean. I'm sure they are all fine and well to administer, if that becomes your cup of tea and sympathy.
There is something tremendously erotic about women, to me, though it seems clear enough that homosexuality is not the mere absence of that feeling, but its corollary perhaps directed elsewhere.
We are each only permitted to feel what we are capable of feeling, to prefer what we prefer. It is only in choice that we seem free.
I seem to prefer to choose the electric Miles.
.
