Boys

I have known a great many boys in my time, and not a few men among them. I have known men who would still be boys, Peter Pans living in their own Neverneverland’s, but mostly I have known boys trying to be men.

Beautiful, strong boys, marching boldly forward into the great unknown, unknowing of the future they wish to brave, and ignorant of their own final intentions, but moving forward with such wayward ambition. I have known boys who fly by the seats of their pants, from adventure to adventure, moving, always moving.

I have known boys who like to play dress up, the way that girls play dress up, except they believe they are making an empire. They look the part, certainly, but they are just playing dress up.

The danger and true beauty with boys, is their beauty trapped up in a ball of false bravado and arrogance.

I have loved boys, in their folly and youth. Loved them as they wandered this way and that, scrounging, trying to prove to “themselves” that they are good enough, that they have what it takes, all the while never once asking; “good enough for what?” I have loved the deluded boys who believe they are the knights in shining armour, out to save me or whatever damsel in distress, whether she be human or a situation that needs to be rescued by their infallible strength.

Young boys from northern Pakistan in 2007.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Boys in their Sunday best, with trembling fingers, and shining eyes of unshed tears, not quite sure of who they are yet. I have loved boys, as they lie awake late at night, alone with only their thoughts, conscience and actions to mull over, and whisper into the night their fears and misgivings, as if they are new.

I have loved them with a breaking sadness, as I realized that they are too young for me, that their thought processes are too incomplete, like broken synapses that don’t carry their impulses all the way to their destinations. I have realized with a heavy heart that I am too old for them, that I find these boys to be a burden on my already laden shoulders and I do not that the extra strength to carry them and their foolhardiness as well.

And it has wounded me deeply, this knowledge. Should I not seek my partner within my own age range? Am I truly obliged to seek solace, comfort and equality amongst those at least a decade my senior?

It is ever the burden of age to caution the youth, as it is ever the purview of youth to mock the aged.  - paraphrased from Phillip Pullman.

Wilted Flowers

Delicate jars, filled with scents fragrant and foul, decorate the dresser top.
Stoppers and vials, creams and balms, miracle workers, magic potions,
Hide discolouration,
Cover up damage,
Mask wrinkles,

Ritualistic evenings, cleanse, tone,
Anti-wrinkle,
Anti-ageing,
antioxident,
mirror-worshiping neurosis.

Give me youth, radiance, plump cheeks fresh with the dew of youth and vitality.
Let the harshness of reality not show on my features.
Let not the late nights, smoke filled rooms,
- and bottles, not glasses of wine, show on my features.

The advert models, with their angelic pristine features, airbrushed to perfection,
Experts swipe miracle shades on their faces, til the faces don’t know their reflections.
Look, these then, are our paragons of beauty.
Look then, at the illusion of virtue these angelic faces present,
The faces and skins we aspire to be like.

Let not riverbeds be formed on my cheeks, from the tears bitterly wept,
Let not furrows find purchase at the corners of my eyes,
Let not valleys form beneath my eyes from too many late nights,
- where there have not been enough hours in a day to complete tasks and let my body claim the rest it so richly deserves.

Gay, shrill shrieks of laughter, happy witches, at their gay Witching Hour;
Cauldrons boil, smoke rises into the night, as demonic, twisted figures dance maniacally around a bonfire.
Tonight’s demons will give way to tomorrow’s regrets,
Prayers, admonitions and oaths of, ‘I’ll never drink again!’

To let the day wane away,
as headaches pound,
stomachs churn,
and beds call out with sweet endearments,
Pathetic half-smiles of empathy and camaraderie join former devils in the Day of Repentance.

To burn with unyielding passion;
Then bank down flames, as the body can no longer fuel the mind’s fiery rages;
To be gods for an evening, impenetrable, fearless, invincible,
To be smote down into crawling vulnerable babes with the morning rays.

The beauty of the world, slowly beaten down and made more unattainable,
As monotony, ritual, routine and duty,
Take over the unbridled adventure of youth.

There need not be any tragedy, suffering, pain or curse,
Merely drudgery, monotony, and the day to day,
Just tryin’ to make a living, just tryin’ to get by,
Day to month, month to full 365

Wilted Flower

Wilted Flower (Photo credit: dagnyg)

The Beautiful and Damned

English: Fourth of six lobby cards for 1922 lo...

English: Fourth of six lobby cards for 1922 lost film The Beautiful And Damned (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I reached maturity under the impression that I was gathering the experience to order my life for happiness. Indeed, I accomplished the not unusual feat of solving each question in my mind long before it presented itself to me in life – and of being beaten and bewildered just the same.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, (The Beautiful and Damned) 1922.

Judgment Day

Grumpy Cat is one of my favorite online memes. I feel a great affinity for that malcontent kitty cat. One meme reads; “B-E-F-O-R-E not B4. I speak English, not bingo.” Were it not for the striking differences in our species, I would think we are related.

Two weekends ago, I was looking for a jigsaw puzzle. I remember doing jigsaws as a child and having a love-hate relationship with them. For one thing, I liked watching the puzzle come together, on the other hand, those small pieces depicting foliage, in a puzzle made up predominantly of trees and underbrush, tended to be viewed with looks that could kill. If I had a fireplace, I would have sent some of those puzzle pieces straight to a fiery hell.

English: Puzzle Krypt

English: Puzzle Krypt (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m older now. I’m a lot more content in my alone time, and I dislike other humans. Puzzles seem a wonderful way to while away time, without increasing the electricity bill.

So, I went in search of a puzzle suitable for adults. This ruled out the holographic 3D 50 piece puzzles that dominate the shelves. Are we trying to compensate for making ‘easy’ puzzles, by making them holographic? I’m fairly sure when I was younger, puzzles for children aged 8-12 were 100 to 200 pieces, standard. When did 50 pieces, each piece the size of my palm, become de rigueur? 

Suffice to say, the search for a sufficiently challenging adult puzzle was not an easy one. Eventually, I settled for one of a geisha on a red-cloud-heavens backdrop. I wasn’t particularly interested in the puzzle, I can tell that all the red around her figure is going to infuriate me when it comes to putting the puzzle together, but I was sort of rushed into the decision.

As I was pondering whether or not I would see red at having to put together so much red, a familiar face walked into the store. I mean that quite literally, it was a familiar face, but I have no idea who this human is. I know I have met him before, my immediate reaction was that I did not like him when I met him, possibly because I found him lecherous. Having said that, my immediate reaction to most people is that I don’t like them. The Familiar One walked over to me with determination. Apparently, I was familiar to him too. Perhaps this mystery would be solved by his comments.

He is a few inches taller than me, with a face the shape, colour and texture of the surface of a sponge cake. Not mottled or pit marked, but not entirely smooth, as if there have been dimples and valleys pressed into his face by a child’s careless hands in play dough. His eyes were dark, like black olives, and he has a large dimple in the centre of his chin. It reminded me of those jewel pins found in cravats, just a hollow in his chin, at once fascinating and repulsive. He was also oily.

He stood too close to me, his chest, which extended outwards in almost comical proportions, pressing into my personal space. The aisle was small, I could not really move back, for fear of standing in painting supplies. We made small talk, and it was all that small talk could hope to be, pointless back and forth making of noises that are accepted as words and sentences. He similarly found my face familiar, but could not recall where he knew me from either. I suggested a few places we could have met, and he dismissed them, on the basis that he works all day, then he works out after work, and finally he goes home. Besides a few social engagements on the weekend, he doesn’t get out much, and therefore the places where we could have met dropped drastically.

Weight Lifting

Weight Lifting (Photo credit: mjzitek)

He said something unusual; “I’m focusing more on cardio now, and cutting down on weights, so I can trim down,” or something to that effect. I wondered about it then and I wonder about it now – why on earth would you say that to someone you don’t know? Why would I care if you do weights, or cardio? Was that some sort of social precursor to my asking; “What do you bench?”

It struck me as being phoney and a terrible attempt to flaunt one’s physical prowess. Frankly, I really don’t care. I am prejudiced in this regard, in case this wasn’t already obvious. Generally, I am a little wary of people who work out regularly and wax poetic about how their bodies are changing. This is how I think:

  1. Worst case scenario, they are working on their physique to compensate for a deficiency of personality or brains;
  2. They previously or continue to have body issues that are so deep that they need to work out and tell all and sundry, in intimate detail, about what they do at the gym, so that they can make peace with their inner demons; or,
  3. They are part of the new age movement of happy people who eat like rabbits, have one glass of wine a week, and live without really living. Their lives are full of ‘think positive’ anecdotes and post its, ideas gleaned off of Pinterest to be fit and happy. These particular people seem to be obsessed with cursive fonts telling them to breathe deeply and exhale the love of the Universe, as a front to run and hide from the reality that life is hard, painful, and beautifully tragic.

All in all, it is not wise, when you have just met me to tell me, for no reason whatsoever, what you do in a gym.

Moving along, he messaged me later, because I’m weak and gave this person my number, perhaps his Weights faux pas was a minor slip up in an initial impression. His first message; “when u free?”

Consider this, one message of 160 available characters costs a fixed amount. Whether you use all, none or one of these characters, it will charge you for the full 160 characters. I can overlook the spelling of ‘you’ as ‘u’ as that doesn’t bother me overly much. But what happened to ‘are’? For the sake of consistency, he could easily have typed; “when r u free?” that’s an additional 2 characters, at no extra cost. Consider how easy it is to type that particular message, one line, simple structure - how difficult is it to type the full question?!

Let’s play Devil’s advocate;

  1.  He was busy or distracted at the time he sent the message. If that’s the case, I am evidently not worth the time needed to type a proper sentence, what else am I not worth in this person’s mind?
  2. It was an attempt at Lolspeak, or other modern text based communication, where it is known that the grammatical set up is wrong, but is acceptable because it is tongue in cheek. – The man is in his late thirties, early forties. Best foot forward, let’s speak English, not Engrish.
  3. That’s how he speaks in spoken conversations, and so he just typed as he speaks. Unless you have a reason for not speaking English at this basic level with a basic degree of proficiency, such as you don’t normally speak English, it isn’t your mother tongue, father tongue or any other blood relative tongue, you’re just being lazy.

And, if Dead Poet’s Society has taught us anything it is this; ”Language was invented for one reason, boys – to woo women – and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do.”

Wine from a Teacup

Tomorrow is a public holiday. Right bam in the middle of a work week, being waited on by two sets of two-work day marathons. The result being that having a midweek holiday is more a cause for misery that celebration.

¿INFLUENZA?, AJA Y QUE MÁS....JAJAJ

No comment (Photo credit: Immer_Lebend)

However, I have taken it upon myself to at least attempt to enjoy this strange phenomenon, much like enjoying a mid-summer’s flu. Getting time off- YAY! Being sick with the flu to get time off – not so yay. The plan of action was to put a movie on, something I haven’t seen, or something I haven’t seen to the point where I can recite the various lines and call upon my inner thespian, possibly have a long bubble bath and finally, consume enough alcohol to make myself personable, to myself, because that is who I will be spending my night with.

Having seen most of the movies on my hard drive and in my DVD collection, I thought I would enjoy the services of tvlinks.cc. I merrily went over to the site, and looked for a movie I want to see but haven’t seen. This time around, I chose Basic Instinct. I apparently need to login to use this site. No problemo, I remember I went through this process. Oh no, wait, false alarm. I’ve forgotten my username and password. To make matters even more laughable, I’ve forgotten which of my email addresses I used to set it up.

However, this just meant that there was more time to sit in a bathtub, contemplating the endless wonders and beauties of a bathroom ceiling, whilst imbibing alcohol. I went to see what could be done in the way of hot water – my geyser has decided to give up the ghost. This theoretically means that there is enough hot water left in the tank from the wonders of a hot sun boiling water in whatever tank is up in my ceiling to shower after I… ok, let’s not get into my ‘workout’ routine right now. Yes, there’s enough water for a quick, military style shower. Alternatively, I can boil and heat water in a pot in order to get the bath situation under control. Somehow though, there isn’t the same degree of romanticism associated with waddling whilst holding a pot full of water from a kitchen to a bathroom, repeatedly, in order to run a bath, as there is with wistfully letting hot water out of a faucet, and adding some sweet smelling bubble making fluid, into the tub. Inasmuch as I can appreciate the value of doing squats, and can even potentially agree that waddling with a full pot of water will provide decent resistance, it just doesn’t quite hold the same allure.

Finally, this left the wine. I had the presence of mind, and the good sense to acquire a bottle of sweet red wine. As far as wines go, I do not have the palate to appreciate a ‘full bodied wine, with an undertone of oak,’ when all it tastes like to me is musty stale grape juice. Sweet red wine – sweet grape juice with a kick. I can work with that.

Having put the bottle off to chill a bit, because it was a bizarre temperature, I went in search for my wine glass. I have a set of wine glasses hiding somewhere in the house. I only have one mouth with which to drink, and I don’t think any of my friends here who I would let into my house, drink alcohol. Therefore, there is only ever one wine glass out and around the kitchen.

My wine glass has apparently dedicated itself to some form of revolutionary force and in so doing has won its liberation war. The silly thing cannot be found. I’ve checked in all the cupboards and I even looked in the fridge. There is no wine glass. However, I refuse to be deterred by this little set back. Wine is wine. I have teacups. I am drinking sweet red wine from a teacup.

Pages in a Book

Not to say that I had an unhappy childhood. My childhood, if anything was extremely ordinary. The truth, though, is that painful memories have forged me more poignantly than the happy ones, but I suppose that is true for many people. As a child, I read because it gave me joy and excitement. Now, I read because it gives me solace.

I don’t read because I need to escape, I read because one lifetime is not enough. There will never be enough time to do all the things I want to do, see all the things I want to see, and be all the people and versions of me, that I want to be. As much as that is endearing, it is also sad.

I read books about most things, but mostly about people, or about emotions that people feel. I liked to page through books, as if I was learning a lover for the first time. Just learning the texture and feel of characters, not trying to change them, because the book is already written. Just trying to appreciate them. Sometimes, I’d ask myself; ‘what would I do in their shoes? Would I do the same thing?’ Sometimes, I’d be content to just let a book character be their own independent person, muddling through someone else’s plot. I rarely cared about the author and who they were and how they became who they were. I was, and am content, to bask in the presence of their characters.

I wonder how many characters are based on real people, the author may have known. We’re all supposed to have at least one good book in us, I don’t know if that’s true. But, great stories can come from ordinary plots. But, oftentimes, I think it’s the people in books that make stories so compelling – at least that’s the case for me.

Imagine if you were only ever a character in someone else’s story. A passing figment, a chapter, or a page in the life of another person. Imagine then, if you could read that story, and see yourself through another person’s experience of you. How would they describe you? Would they see you, for who you see yourself to be, a shade of you, or merely a caricature, sprouting the same words that you speak, but with none of the meaning?

Would you fight to be seen for who you see yourself as? Would you be content with the shade of you, being the only version of you that person could see? Would you let someone else look through your book, and see the world with all its players, as you see it?

Love-Lies-Bleeding, Tassel Flower (Amaranthus ...

Love-Lies-Bleeding, Tassel Flower (Amaranthus caudatus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember, Remember

“Remember,” whispered on the wind.

A gentle sigh, an outward breath.

“Remember…”

Remember to speak less, but mean more,

Remember to read before joining,

Remember to forget,

Remember to regret.

columbine

columbine (Photo credit: Evan Ravitz)