Sometimes I almost--almost, but not quite--miss the days when I was so unaware of how easily I can hurt people's feelings, when I blissfully did my own thing, damaging friendships left and right and being so casual in my relations with women, believing that nothing was wrong simply because so few people ever actually told me anything was wrong. Everything seemed so much simpler, and although I still felt the melancholy, it was so much easier to believe that what made me different from others made me special in a good way. I found people so much easier to deal with, and people liked me that way.
But no. I could never go back to that way of thinking now. It's just too late to re-embrace ignorance. What I see as the best years of my life were actually filled with so much carelessness, self-deception, womanising, and failing people...Gods! How shallow I was, what was I thinking? I was horribly immature, and I fooled so many people into believing I was someone worth looking up to. I even started to believe it myself.
Call me weak, call me insecure, call it self-pity, tell me it's unattractive to be openly self-conscious like this, but it doesn't change anything. I could hide behind the excuse of, "I just didn't know!" but it doesn't undo the damage I've done. This grey twilight existence I now live in, I live in because I put myself here. I have no RIGHT to complain about it. All I can do is strive to redeem myself. I shine optimism and point out love and goodness and shake my pom-poms as acts of contrition, and also because I DO believe in the importance of these things. But I can't escape karma. I have no right to complain or cry when things in my life go wrong. I promise I'll try harder in the future not to be so damn whingey when they don't. I can try to rebuild, to move on from my past, but I'm not stupid. It may be too late for me, and as much as I wish I could change things from my past, the Erinyes will not be denied.
(cross-posted from my Facebook)
Melancholy is simply part of who I am. It is embedded in my soul as surely as a mountain is embedded in the earth. Sometimes it's hard to remember that it is not my enemy, but one of my strengths, for melancholy is the source which fuels the fire of my compassion. The wellspring which so often drowns me in this feeling of wistful sorrow and loneliness, is the same wellspring which washes society's carefully-crafted illusions from my vision, allowing me to see beauty where others see ugliness, and unity where others see separation.
It is a blade with twin edges, to be certain, but the deeper it cuts, the stronger my love for the world grows. I have been this way for 40 years. I cannot possibly imagine a life without it now...and I lie to myself if I say, "I wish it to be gone." This mountain is not an obstacle to be overcome. It is a foundation upon which to build my workshop. Blessed effin' be.
Note to self: Italian porn can be strange, even by your standards.
In a fit of curious whimsy, I went surfing on Redtube and stumbled across a clip with a "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves" theme. Seven midgets in red caps, dressed like priests, weeping over a woman pretending to be asleep (and dressed in a ridiculously tacky gold lamee "ball-gown"). In comes a jaunty fellow clad in faux Italian noblewear, leans over, gives her a peck on the cheek. There's this cheesy chiming-bell sound and then BAM--instantly cuts to...well, you know. Or maybe you don't, but don't worry, it's probably better that way.
It's rather curious to me, the subtle differences one can find in porn around the world. Different geographic areas seem to have different standards in terms of "plot," costumes, dialogue, even fetishes (a good example being tentacle porn, which I've yet to see avidly produced anywhere outside of Asia. Why Asia in particular? What sort of collective unconscious process drives the desire to produce weirdness like that? What's with the fetish for men wearing girl's underpants while watching hentai? Etc.)
Mind you, I'm not trying to imply I'm being puritanical towards gonzo porn, merely that my own preferences and kinks (and believe me, I have a few) seem almost vanilla in comparison with some of the material I've seen out there.
Of course, nothing beats the pure intimacy of actually experiencing good, loving sex in person, but since I'm currently not getting any of that, I content myself with watching others do it. Just show me two people in love (or at least, with good chemistry) making love without artifice, and I'm perfectly happy. I'm a shameless sensualist, but I think it runs along lines more appropriate to a D.H. Lawrence or Henry Miller novel, rather than Mapplethorpe.
To each their own, though. Takes all kinds to make a world, y'know? :-)
40th birthday is nigh, in less than six days, and my mind is a whirling cyclone of contemplation. The path behind me strewn with rubble and half-hearted achievements, the path before me winding through a shrouded valley illuminated by a moon of uncertainty, and the ground upon which I presently stand seems more like quicksand than castlework. And I cannot say with any surety how much of this comes from my own foolishness, and how much is from burdens thrust upon me by circumstances I truly did not ask for. And yes, the difference matters to me, a whole Hell of a lot.
You know kids...seasonal depression really really sucks.
Particularly when you're dealing with seasonal allergies on top of it.
Forward I slog.
Really now, this half-state of existence is getting damn silly.