I feel a wealth of sadness today. I’m not sure why. If I had to guess, I’d say there is desire and futility battling it out in my chest, with defeat as the veracious victor.
It’s maddening that the only kindred men I meet are unavailable. I suppose in the musical chairs of life, where everyone is madly scrambling to find a partner and secure their place before the music stops (and loneliness becomes a spectator sport), it makes sense there aren’t any spare chairs lying around for me to saunter up to at a time most salubrious. But, as my boss so eloquently said today: holy flying c*nt fuck. It should be easier than this.
It’s hard enough to find a Bert to my Ernie – they must also be available and have the same ding for me as I zing for them? Once such odds are computed by Willy Wonka’s Machine of Maddening ‘Mpediments, what’s spat out the other end are a couple of bereft baristas with a penchant for caffeine and Wuc. (Not surprising, I suppose, since one is inextricably linked with the other.) And while these baristas may light up at affirmations of how hot their coffee is (not a euphemism) – they don’t really froth my milk, if you know what I mean.
Hell. Even Benny Hill would know what I mean.
He is beautiful, you see. Normal. And sane, and gentle, and funny. Flutely flawed yet soulfully intelligent. He leaves me wanting on no level (except affirmation) and I find myself painfully envious of his relationships with others, especially those who also fight for his light to shine on them. As fireflies, they exist only millimetres closer to the flame, but. On days like today, those millimetres feel mammoth in injustice.
I’m living in a silent film it seems – where conversation is almost telepathic in its layered communications and foibles. And the space and silence between bodies almost lyrical.
Love shouldn’t be futile, as a rule; but it so often is. So the challenge becomes not to find or fight for love, but to keep finding and fighting for love each time it springs back on its kangaroo conclusion and binary boots you flat in the face.
To keep the faith in face of such cruelty seems the real dance.
So. In upbeat yet soggy sidebar, irrelevant to the one I hunger for: I met a lovely cerebral fellow at the networking event last night. He works in advertising but looks like a designer hobo. Beanie, geek chic glasses, beard. The quiet, observant type in the corner whose laugh you have to earn. Intellectually muppet-like. (I discover I have a penchant for men who remind me of muppets) (I’m unabashed in this) (one could even say, proud).
We talked at length about his projects, though nary a whisper about mine. His are heavy, emotionally laden ideas where dogs and children die. His brother fought in Afghan (the country, not the rug) and he recently had a medical scare which inspired him to pursue his love of film. We connected. I liked him, as an adult loves mental health. He liked me, as a non-committal man loves cheese. I gained his business card, but not enough interest for him to ask for mine. I expect he’ll fade into obscurity of muppet might’ve beens … only to pop up at Cannes as an up and comer who never was (in my personal story, that is) (or was).
Side note to my sidebar: I also met a French woman who was strangely lacking in confidence. (No French woman should lack in confidence.) She avidly engaged me in a philosophical confabulation about writing, but swears she’ll never be a writer. She cut every sentence in two: “I think …” insert start of opinion here, “but maybe, I don’t know …” insert self-defeat here. Then spoke of people perennially misinterpreting her. And in conclusion, recommended a Russian film featuring the dance of Dracula. I liked her immensely.
In other news, my life is progressing with risk and rhythm. How kind of you to ask. There is so much to impart, not least of which how I did depart from the slovenly survival of gunslingers past. In short and with much ado about something: I have moved house, moved jobs and moved closer to a career which feeds and seeds my other love: film. A felicitous fable for another day per’aps, when my forecast is not so flighty.