Give my best to your wishful thinking.

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.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

34 thoughts on “Give my best to your wishful thinking.

  1. Seek love do you? Abandon search, must you. Decide you do not need it, do not want it, have no use for it, would refuse it. Then love will crawl into your lap and lick your face and dare you to ignore it. Stupid that way love is.

        1. Gives you what you need, the universe does. Perhaps impudence and perversity is what you need. How to want what you need? A different question, that is. ;-)

          Find you, happiness will, but its own sweet time will it take.

  2. My heart leaps up when I behold… a new post from the wuc…
    And then she reminds me of just how often I have felt that shite – cheers!
    Here’s some advice I advise you not to take – which successful person ever took advice…
    Do not compromise. Do not be herded. Do not give up. Do not become illusioned. Do keep the faith. Do look after you inner kid (goat or otherwise) Do know that shit still happens even when you find the lurveofyerlife, sometimes moreso.
    The trouble with us gals is that we’re often happy, but we just don’t realise it. If we haven’t got anyone to share it with it somehow feels less real. Remember that happiness shared can be happiness compromised. I speak as someone who’s known both sides of the tracks. I can tell you that there’s good grass to nibble from on both, sure, but…
    There’s no getting away from the sex… It’s the killer… the search for someone who stimulates you intellectually AND physically… That’s Utopia, girl. I have found it, but he’s still a messy git who is sometimes miserable, is often out of rhythm, is a tad reclusive, is frequently nocturnal, cannot drive yet requires a chauffeur, leaves his underwear and bath towels on the floor all the time and can’t change a lightbulb, never mind unpack a flatpacked bookshelf…
    Chin up :D
    PS If I was a creative yet masculine guy with youth, energy, looks and wit in abundance and lived down under, I’d do ya! Sadly I am none of those. Well maybe the first.

    1. Crack up. And you’re welcome (for the reminding of that shite), most welcome of Lindsay Waller-Wikinsons. I think I could scarce side-step that advice should I try. Nor do I want to, if the truth and mirror be known. Thanks for reminding me. And props to you for finding your muppet, bath towels and tidiness be damned.

    1. Hearty thanks, Raving. Wucs on a surprising and pleasant end – like the ever-so-slight upward curl on the mouth of a cynic, sometimes the wins are in the little things!

    1. I have been busy sucking all imaginable marrow out of life, and it out of me! Good and exhausted am I, and ready to tell tale!

      Glad to be back, thanks C Dog.

  3. I LOVE your writing style! Fit to be read with my favourite classical tracks while sipping tea and being caressed by the gentle wind of the night as the lovely scents from the garden intoxicate my sense of smell. I hope you have “write a book” on your bucket-list.

    I know how you feel. Seems like the same happens with me where guys are involved. Sometimes I feel like, maybe, I am too busy to care and then when I realise I am lonely the train has already moved on. I don’t know. But like your boss said. it should be easier than this. Recently I’ve just stopped caring about finding a “mate”. Not sure if this emotion has an on button. But I’m too positive so I believe it should have an on button to it.

    My feelings while reading your post were on the lines of how I feel get when watching an emotionally delicious movie of a depiction from the Victorian era. Emotions were so much pure back then. More truthfully and easily expressed void of the mind and emotional games of this century. Oh well.

    1. Wucs and wonderment. That sounds splendiferous, to take part in your gilded garden! Loved the Victorian take too. I’m honoured, thanks much M.

      “Write a book” has been a life dream since I first found words (around 10, I suppose) and used to express my emotions with markers on the wall of my bedroom. “I love life.” “I hate life.” (Smaller vocabulary back then) (and perhaps somewhat manic depressive)!

      So true about being too busy to care, then realising you’re not but the world didn’t wait for you. This resonates! Yet there’s a stubborn part of me which rebels against being herded into making crucial compromises to save from being alone. Doesn’t seem worth it. It’s only men such as this, suddenly there before me in all their beguiling reality, which make me falter. Or hope, perhaps.

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