Back "home"

I thought of Texas today and felt sad. I wasn't sad because I missed her, or missed a certain feeling, or missed the place, the sensations, or the intimacy.

I felt sad because I can't remember. I remember words and vague images. I remember moments and I remember what it felt like to miss her when she was gone.

But I don't remember her.

I remember saying, a long time ago, now, "it doesn't matter that it didn't, couldn't work out. It doesn't matter if it was all a fantasy that was born, lived, and died in my head, and she just played along in my cast. It doesn't matter, because even if it's only fantasy, even if it was make believe, I want it. I want that feeling, and wasting my time with XXXX and YYYYY, with bitches who aren't the one, with slutbags and idiots, with anyone who doesn't at least come close to that, is just a complete waste of time and energy."

I remember where I was when I said that. I remember what CD was on. I remember who I said it to. I remember from where I came, and I remember the bite of the cold air and the wet ground that met me when I finished that conversation.

But I can't remember that sensation. I can't remember what it felt like to feel that good, nor can I remember how fruitless it felt when I came home to my brothel of women who wanted to love me and never could.

It's good in some ways, of course. I don't remember crying to Smile Like You Mean It, not able to help myself. I don't remember what it felt like to be out with my friends, talking to girls, and leaving, alone, to cry in the car.

But maybe it was worth it.

It was a year ago, this week, when I drove to Texas. I came with a voice mail full of messages from girls who called me from seven area codes and two countries. I left with a lump in my throat, a text message on my phone, and the soft eyes one gets when holding back tears.

I called one of those girls back a couple of weeks ago. It was like the intervening year never happened. But it still fell a little flat.

I'm listening to music, now, to try and cry a little. Seemingly foolish, I know, but sometimes I need to remind myself I'm alive. Where the capacity for a gallon of tears exists there lives a passion for life and love that I fear might be dead.

But songs about Lauren lack bite. Songs about Presh have carried that vague "I hope she found her way" sentiment for a decade. Songs about Slutbag are just annoying.

Amanda's songs still have a little power. Ahh, Jewel. But it's just a faraway memory about a memory. Like remembering a dream from a week ago, in which, in the first place, you watched yourself as if in a movie... so far removed you're not even sure it really happened.

The beauty of apathy is the power to go on, the lack of wallowing, the small joys of enjoying a good meal, of making old friends and complete strangers laugh, of a game of catch with your nephew. The beauty of apathy is that duty carries you, that the small joys of accomplishment in work or school are noticed and appreciated, even if not quite felt.

The horror of that same apathy is the severe, blatant, obvious, and detrimental scourge that is the absence of passion. The fear that kissing a pretty girl might, forever and always, simply be a calculated exercise of pressure and skill, a stepping stone to some sort of physical connection that might lead to a session of memorable pillow talk, rather than the take-your-breath-away experience when time stops and all that is the burden of life melts as if never there in the first place.

I'm not sure I remember passion at all. I think, mostly, I just remember missing those moments when I realized they were gone.

--

I don't think the answer is being contentment through acceptance. I don't think it's a matter of "wanting what you got" as Sheryl Crow says.

I want my passion back. I need it. I miss it.

Even if being older means I'm more chill, more laid back, more able to handle stress and life's wild cards... it's not worth it if it cost me my passion.

Fuck acceptance. Fuck the simple life. I'm already "simple" in my materialism and needs.

But give me back my passion, even if it comes with pain.

(gulp)

broken, gone, couch-surfing, and other news

I'm on a couch somewhere east of Sacramento tonight. It's a little short for me.

I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.

Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.

Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.

One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.

I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...

whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.

Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"

Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.

I told him I don't care what she thinks.

I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."

And that was that.

I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.

I hate her for taking that away from me.

And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.

I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...

Sigh. No, I don't.

I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.

I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.

And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...

Die.

--

I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?

Probably texas.

--

Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."

To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."

I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.

For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?

That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"

Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.