Of Cookies and Human Dignity

Just saunter on it and say, "Good day, nice to meet you. What did you think of the sermon?" That's all you have to do. Don't slink to the side, cherry-pick conversations, steal a cookie and leave. Oh, no, that would be sad. Being social and interacting with the other naked apes is easy, and provides what has for you been rarer than unobtainium; dignity. A modicum of fucking dignity.

Yeah. I'm going to go get a cookie and a cup of coffee. After that, I'll simply and dispassionately listen to people converse with me, and affably respond when it is my turn to speak. Most of it will be small talk. After that, anything can bubble to the surface, from the mind to the mouth. You may hear about gyroscopes, Yodels, scientific pantheism, a joke, meta-ethical relativism and, of course, the presence of cookies.

That's right, my friends, I'm at a Unitarian Universalist coffee hour and I'm trying like hell to dip my toes backs into the pool of humanity. Why? Because I'm silly for rejection, it gets me going. There is nothing so rewarding as to reveal your thoughts about a subject, and to subsequently be looked at as a mental patient.

Usually, though, the look isn't there except in my mind. So I must push past the aforementioned inclination to bolt, dig up a little fortitude, and hold my ground. Coffee eventually finds it's way into my hand and the talk gets a little deeper. The probing a bit closer to tender spots that I am well-practiced in protecting.

My heart is beating quickly, forcefully...I can see the lapel on my jacket move slightly with every beat. And breathing is no longer automatic. It requires focus to take every breath. Sweat covers my chest and back.

I'm trying to be witty in my responses, and attentive, but casual. Affable, gregarious, one of the good guys. What Linda's father calls a, "White Hat." A reference to old westerns. But something is wrong. I'm too alert. My eyes look into the eyes of whomever is speaking, and they are questioning, which suits my passionate desire to fit in. To be interested. Or feign it. Whatever it takes. Whatever humans do.

People are beginning to mix again, and I move towards a pastry table. They look pert and fresh and could pass for some sort of frosted erotica. But pastry isn't on my mind, as I already have cookies in my jacket pocket. But by moving away, I'm signaling that the conversation is over. My head is spinning. Less than a minute later and out the door I go, into my 1993 Mercury Tracer with dents on the front left quarter panel. I put those dents there.

The morning was a clear success, as I got to know a couple of people and made my face familiar. But as I pass the Argentinian Restaurant on Mass. Ave., a feeling of absurdity envelopes me. As if I'm the only person on Earth to approach life in this milquetoast fashion.

One Penny & 99 Red Balloons

Last July found me enduring an annoying rattle coming from a old-timey fan that once sat on the floor, aimed at my hot bits. Every time I sought relief from rapidly moving air, there was that sound. A story came to mind, of my great uncle, who once ran away from home and joined the circus, literally. My grandfather hired a private investigator, who quickly found him. As the story goes, the PI and several members of my family walked into the circus tent in which the PI had tracked him down, among the freaks. He wasn't human anymore, he was, "Bobo the Wild Boy." Frantically, he jumped around and shook the bars of his cage. People jumped back, then stared in amazement. I've been told that it was quite the display. What a world. What a world.

What happened next is family legend, related to me by my father. In mid-grunt, arms flailing, "Bobo" caught sight of his father, shaking his head. Instantly, the poor wild thing started balling. It wasn't long before he was led back to the farm. One supposes that it was for the best. Although there is an romantic appeal to being a wild anything.

Back to the fan. Last night, the aforementioned penny vibrated ever-so-gently out of the grasp that held it so tightly, and silently, these many months. It then fell into the spinning blades and kapow!, went sailing (somehow through the bars of the fan) and ricocheted off the window, leaving a tiny mark.

The fan had found it's voice again! I was awake to see this only because it happened during a pee break in the middle of the night, and a song on the radio gave me pause before I fell back to sleep. It had me ensconced in unbearable melancholy, and as I climbed back into bed with eyes welling up, a penny flew by me and hit the window.

The song was 99 Luftbalons by Nena.

Of Cream Cheese And The Aesthetics of Hopelessness

It's hard to imagine what she was thinking as she pushed past me without a glance. Did you see her? Gray sweatpants and a puffy blue winter coat, and boots with a tacky fur trim. And the black hair, wet from a very recent shower. If memory serves, she was holding a container of half & half.

While she was picking up her coffee whitener, I was 7 feet, 3 inches away, assessing the freshness of a little gray box of cream cheese. For reasons that are unclear to me, I'm big on bagels lately. They come in and out of fashion, competing with English muffins in my mind for the role (roll!) of favorite breakfast...bread.

Then I turned, and little miss sweat pants walked into me and kept right on going. Not only that, dear reader, she also managed to look annoyed, without looking at me. I sighed and turned my attention to a woman's bum, and then to various and sundry sundries. Shopping isn't fun.

Now in the possession of bagels, cream cheese and a pound of coffee (in my coat, under my arm...I like expensive coffee), I strode towards the cashier. My mind was on sweat pants, and that made me sad. Sweat pants just make me sad. They bring to mind gym class, hopelessness, poverty and self-loathing. All of them mixed together into a happy fun ball.

Sweat pants are also a popular choice at the food pantry, down at St. Somethingorother. Some even have horrible words written on the ass, like "sweet" or "booty." Those are two I've seen. It's not easy to offend human dignity in the eyes of an existential nihilist and borderline misanthrope. But that does it.

So now I have bagels and cream cheese. Tomorrow I'm going to venture out and attend my local Unitarian Universalist church in an effort to have some intercourse with the world. I'll put on my scientific pantheist hat and light a candle and all that.

One has to keep busy, lest the realization that life is a shit sandwich, with the only variable being that some people get more bread than others.

Now I'm going to fasten my dog to a rope, or "leash," and let her take me around the neighborhood. There's a streetlight outside my window that keeps blinking on and off.

I Miss Last Week

When hikers reach a high, scenic spot they may feel compelled to leave a simple stone. Over time, hikers leave little stacks of rock that sometimes aren't so little.

Arctic expeditions would manufacture ice cairns, which would be the only vertical object for 1,000 miles in any direction. Passing ships would send men onto the icepack to leave notes inside, that could then be picked up by the next expedition. The messages were kept dry in beautiful little airtight copper tubes. They were usually pretty simple, focused on technical matters, weather, and a list of lost crewmen.



This is a digital photography cairn. It's a collection of images from my time as Linda's beloved partner.

I've been in many relationships, and even been in full blown love three times, with all the bells and whistles, confetti and a rain of kisses. Many peaks and valleys, if you get my hackey drift.

Let me put things another way. I never took Linda for granted. When we were together, I knew I was one lucky son of a bitch, and I took stock. Memories are important. The first picture up there is of Linda and I in Oyster Bay, New York. The Children's Museum, I think. The other is obviously here. Are you at all familiar with They Can't Take That Away From My by George and Ira Gershwin? If not, get familiar. Take a listen here. And here are the lyrics, which are important. Years ago, musicians and artists used to use something called melody. And the lyrics were simple, yet profound. Yup.

There are many many crazy things
That will keep me loving you
And with your permission
May I list a few

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No they can't take that away from me

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No they can't take that away from me

We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love
Still I'll always, always keep the memory of

The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No they can't take that away from me

It is worth noting that this song was a work in progress for the Gershwin brothers, for commercial release, when George died. Ira then wrote the lyrics using his dead brothers music. It was a dedication to brotherly love. I'm powerless to keep people in my life, people whom I love with all of me, and I'm given to pouring over memories. It's my sentimentality. Let me say it one last time. I love you, Linda, and our time together was a gift.

This picture shows many of the obstacles to Linda and I finding happiness together. The one on the far left is me, and I'm mainly responsible for making Linda miserable enough to want to flee. But there are some other people in the picture who simply did not true me or like me from day 1 because I'm mentally ill. But that's all in the past. Here we are, before the scarlet letter was applied.

So many memories for me to cherish. The way she would cuddle up so close at night that 90% of the bed was wide open. My naked bum would be against the wall, and it would get really cold. Then when I turned over, she would jump when my cold ass hit her. She and I went to a nudist colony together, too, as a sort of protest against all the hard-bodies. Every night I would make dinner. Annie and I would greet her in the parking lot, and we were a little family. Eventually, I hope to find another family. No kids, just pets. If I find a woman that is 1/10th as funny, sexy, cute and wonderful as my Linda, I'll be lucky to have her. Linda was just out of my class. So I shall cherish what we had. Love will provide my little family again, but right now I'm not much to look at, just a guy with a dog and a broken heart.

Torch Post

On the radio and among friends there is talk of the Big Game while outside the courtyard is mostly baby shit brown from frozen, thawed and re-frozen grass, weeds, bushes and leaves. Everything looks as dead as Marcel Marceau's great grandmother. Above is a gray sky and the sun seems to be ready to shine, shine, shine. But the most you'll see is a halo of light around a shining disk that simply must be hiding just behind the clouds.

Today is February 7, 2010 and I find myself writing the eulogy for yet another relationship. Although this one truly did look special. She seemed to love me so damn much. And I just wanted to grow old with her. This one is going to hurt, and the way she talks to me now is sad. Clearly, her opinion of me has changed.

This is one of those things that you just have to lump. Like it or lump it. Consider it lumped, world, consider it lumped. Regardless of my pain, I'm not mad at Lin. Some things you just have to do. Unfortunately, she just had to get the fuck away from me, and tout de suite. I'm a wreck, but I hope she finds what I didn't have.

And all this right before Valentine's Day. I've always hated that rotten holiday. It makes me wonder how any couple can make it work. Linda and I were totally and madly in love, inseparable, for 5 years. Now boop! it's all over. The search for the right partner and lover is demeaning and emotionally withering.

Now at this point, I have two choices...two wide choices. The first is to go absolutely bat guano and end up in a locked psychiatric ward where my only joy in life comes from graham crackers, ginger ale, and midnight masturbation sessions kept quiet as to avoid waking the roommates. The other option is to employ dialectical methodology and take a chill pill, if possible. So far, the former is working well. We'll see.

A cold wind is cutting between the red brick buildings and rendering a busy neighborhood quiet and as peaceful as the surface of the moon. My eyes are welling up. I miss you, Linda.

A Dog to Walk

This morning finds me waiting to attend a Unitarian Universalist down the street for the first time in about two years. I'm an atheist, but probably a scientific pantheist, as well. Nature may as well be my god. Or the sun. Or Buddy Hackett. It doesn't really matter, as I do enjoy a good spiritual and philosophical conversation about the meaning of life. The UU's are my people, and a good place to start as I try to have more intercourse with the outside world.

Methinks that I've plumbed the depths of existential nihilism and pathological self-loathing and "suicidal ideation" long enough. My instinct is to stay in my flat and read, and listen to music, and paen for the affection of a certain woman. As difficult as it is for me to interact with humans, it needs to be done. Otherwise, loneliness will continue to turn me bitter.

Isn't that super?

Writing helps, as well, and that means I'm going to try and write for this blog more often.

But right now, I have a dog to walk.