Fond of the Bond

Before I get to subject of my little opus today, I just want to share this picture of J. Quinn Brisben and I, from 1992, when he was staying at my flat during the Boston leg of his presidential campaign. He's of ill health these days, and I hope he feels better quickly. Trust me when I say this; the world needs people like Quinn. My letter to him went out today, and I wish I could visit him in Chicago, but I cannot. Get better, comrade.

Money and love. Love and money. I am barely getting by financially. I'm fine with having only the necessities; a flat, food for me and my cats, lights, that sort of thing. But I'm also in a relationship, have been for almost a year now, and I'm always penniless the second half of every single month. I'm fortunate that she says she loves me despite my pathetic poverty, and I do greatly appreciate what I have, but at times I feel it would be better if I lived like a monk. No relationship, no intimacy...just a carefully calculated existence where I can hide out and get by. I sincerely feel such sadness for anyone with the poor judgment or bad luck to fall in love with me. At the same time, I'm quite fond of the bond I share with my beloved. I'm good at being in love. I'm passionate, but my natural inclinations make it hard for me to connect with people. But one single person, in all of his or her complexity and aspects, can look into my eyes and make a profound connection. If I'm part of the human race, even the world itself and everything in it, it's only through the gate of my lover. I've been pretty lucky in love, and that's probably why. Connecting with a woman isn't just something I feel compelled to do because it's what a man (particularly a relatively young gentleman) is supposed to do. Every love affair, one night stand or relationship represents a desire to fulfill the same need. But the greatest among them is falling in love. It makes you nuts, never leaves you alone and makes you feel a bit more alive. Hell, it almost killed me. That story is in the blog archives somewhere.

One can be an romantic and be alone. Shit, look how many artists pull it off. The Russian author Dostoevsky writes about such a person in his short story, "White Nights." A loner who rents a squalid little room in St. Petersburg. He knows the city very well, but rarely talks to anyone. He knows the buildings, parks and people (from a distance). One day, the protagonist finally develops something of a friendship with an old pensioner who sits in the park, passing the time. After months of walking past him he gets the nerve to tip his hat. After that, he waves. This goes on for awhile, then the man disappears and the protagonist is genuinely saddened. When he sees him again, they are both relieved. But they never say a word to each other, at least how I remember it. Sort of like my relationship with Boston, and the world. I have a lot of affection for my fellow man, although I'm pretty sure that that is not a fashionable attitude these days. But a nod or wave is enough, except with the poor girl who finds herself my lover. Into her I pour all my regrets, happiness, fears, self-loathing, passion, opinions and love. The human race gets a tip of my proverbial hat, but my lover gets me entire. That makes me attractive to intellectual, thoughtful and equally passionate women, thus my success at having had so many wonderful women in my life over the years. But like a mantra in my head, I hear over and over again, "You need to be better if you're going to be with another." A modicum of financial security isn't an unreasonable expectation for a woman to have of her 35 year old lover, even if he is bat-shit.

So there are endless apologies, and genuine regret and a sense of loss at what a waste of life I am. A taste, just give me a taste of life and passion and love, but that's not how it works. One is either in or out. Open to receive the love of another or not. And I can't shut down my need to be loved by a woman, a specific woman who works for a local newspaper, and my need to pour my affection into her. So I have to live with the guilt of loving poorly. Or being a poor lover, one who cannot provide anything beyond the flesh; laughter, sex, comradeship, affection, intimacy. A fellow traveler as it were.

I'm talking about falling in love with a failure. For some of us, this world, the only world, will never be right. And I would drink hot blood and tear into and destroy goodness just to make myself a better partner for my lover's love. But I can't. This is the way the clock is wound. I've been with many women, but they always find a reason to leave me, and rightly so for the reasons I've outlined. So there is fear, of losing the one I love. Combined, ever so gently, with a dark hope that she will find someone better, a partner in this life who can treat her as she deserves to be treated. To take the burden of living off a bit by having some material things. I think, unfortunately, that love is not all you need. You need a little green in the bank, too. Some people know this hard truth at birth, some learn it, and some never accept it. It seems crude and crass and cruel in the face of whatever love is. But like the stench of rotting meat or the pain and hopelessness of a terminal illness, sometimes what is ugly is also true.

In between relationships over the years, I've known loneliness like everyone else. It's not unbearable, but it does wither one down, day by day. You can no longer express yourself in the heart and mind of another. So you turn inward and become smaller. This happens in loveless marriages, too, perhaps in an even uglier fashion. When I went on disability I thought I'd have to live like a monk. I don't. But the fashion in which I do live seems adequate for one, but not enough for two. I'm hoping that what seems true isn't. And for an atheist, that's an awful lot of faith to have in an intangible hope. Love. What is it, am I good enough for it, and can I afford it?