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.

About 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 Responses to “Give my best to your wishful thinking.”

  1. It’s a shame that a wealth of sadness (or sorrows (or even tears)) can’t be banked and spent later buying pretty, comforting things. Or be just put away to quietly collect emotional interest while staying out of sight and mind in our heart’s bankbook. Oh, wuc, as a hard-core softie, I’ve been to the well many times and drunk drunkenly from its sweet waters. But the sweetness always evaporates in the heat of life, and the water becomes ever bitter.

    This rock is just about to begin its 59th ring around the rosie for me. It’s taken most of them for me to realize two things: (A) An oddly shaped puzzle piece such as I may in fact have gotten into the wrong box and there may be no place for me in the picture; (2) fuck the well, I’m done with it. I always did see myself as a hermit… tortured artist or mad scientist (or both). Maybe this puzzle piece is its own picture… and maybe that’s okay.

    The point of this puzzling is that a unique shape has a hard time finding a fit… it’s a numbers game, and the odds are not… ideal. The fact that you’re a superior life form probably isn’t much comfort.

    Hand in there, wuc! Every day is a new shake of the dice.

    • Or possibly… “Hang” in there… [sigh] Why is it that the number of proof reads is always N+1, where N is the actual number performed? Weirdly, this rule applies regardless of the value of N….

    • Ah Smitty, if only! If I could bank my tyranny of tears, I would be a rich ass woman. Positively plush with pesos and plumage.

      Your (A) and (2) resound in me as truth first heard yet so familiar. I’m most definitely in the wrong box (though I suspect I was a factory defect and there was only one made, and the box long lost). The puzzle is its own picture – there’s definite comfort in the acceptance of that. I shall indeed hang in there, with my hand in there, thanks chum!

      • Just don’t get caught red-handed! :)

        And I can so relate. Scant comfort, perhaps, but you are not alone in your aloneness. Many one-stringed instruments vibrate in sympathy. We know those notes; we live those notes.

        And as long as you keep playing the music, there is always the chance and hope of forming your own little band. It ain’t over until the echoes from the last note die out.

  2. It is funny how big the world it is yet how small. I feel much the same way as you, though it is for women rather than men. In the town where I live, the most artistic thing that happens, at least in my group, is a farting contest. The men aren’t any better. I long for intellectual conversations that don’t contain the words, I, me, or mine, in nearly every sentence. I long to move somewhere where people think past their next beer or shot of whiskey, though I will admit that I do like my whiskey. You are a wonderful writer and I enjoy your work. It would be great to hear about some of your projects. Keep up the great work!!

    • Thanks so much, Poetry. To be tabled a wonderful writer is food that will sustain me for many a moon to come. Writers are my peeps, I love to be among them. Loved your comments on how big yet small the world is. So true. I find it equally comforting and discomforting in its limits and expanse. When you want to feel small, suddenly your problems fill the frame and are all you can see. Yet when you scream for someone to hear you, suddenly that scream is too small to be heard – like a mouse underfoot.

      In the immortal words of the rapper who lives inside my head and provides perennial commentary: that’s fucked up, yo.

  3. Hey now Wuc, it was a way long time ago, but I once commented in your comments on my own penchant for men who reminded me of muppets (not mere face fuzz, but also hands that look as though they’re pulled up by strings). I may have planted muppet-magnetism in your subconscious & put Fozzy on the pedestal he most deserves. I also feel your first paragraph reflects my life right now with an acute acuteness. So thanks as always for your words.

    • Wucca wucca and a muppet-kindred wucca.

      Nice to meet another bee who can appreciate the romantic facets of the muppet. I didn’t realise you’d been planting fuzzy seeds in my subconcious like a crusty Cusack from Being John Malkovic. Thank you for planting such things of wuccan worth.

  4. I’d have been bored with designer hobo after about a week, and so my duckling, would you. Nothing is more tiring than self-absorption…and artfully placed beanies above geek chic glasses. He likely feels very good about himself today, having garnered so much interest from our one and only ‘wuc’. Chemistry counts only until it doesn’t. The French girl is the real muppet. Find out if she has a brother. :)

    • Crackles and cheese. Loved “the French girl is the real muppet” – perhaps why I liked her so much. You’re right, of course. I would be bored with the designer hobo – a designer hobo is still a hobo!

  5. What Trickslattery said. Fuck film–write a book.

    Anyway, good to have you back. And a Benny Hill sighting too. It’s going to be a good day.

    • Wuccadoodies, thanks Jpon. Good to be back. Somehow, just when I think I’m out, self reflection PULLS me back in. Good thing too, wot.

      Write, I shall write, until the words come to life and dance with me in the shadows of candlelight.

  6. Every time I read a post of yours I think to myself – damn, what amazing writing skills. he wuc could write a book about something…anything! and it would be a hit.

    -Envious

  7. Ah, Wuc….I feel your pain. When it comes to the ol’ luuuurve…we are but a speck, spiralling through the asteroid belt of disastrous relationships, which in itself is on some outer arm of the galaxy of hope. Sorry to labour the cosmic metaphor, but it’s the VASTNESS isn’t it? The sheer enormity of the odds of all those lovey ducks being in a row, so the fireworks go off as planned, and not in your face. I was two years shy of fifty..fucking FIFTY!!! before it clicked into place for me. It was an “ohhh…so THAT’s how it’s supposed to feel” moment. I suppose I should finish by saying, in the interests of unbridled optimism: If the window of opportunity is closed firmly shut, borrow a fucking hammer. Anyway, I’ll always love ya!

    • It IS the vastness, old bean. How well your asteroids put it (said the actress to the bishop). It’s indeed soothing to hear someone who understands and has battled it, only to triumph at the other side. Thanks much, my friend. I don’t know what I’ll look like at 50, but hey, it’s something to aim for – at least in hope that my faith and hope nay droop so low as me prosaic parts.

      And in kindred conclusion – I’m all for unbridled optimism!

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