Tag Archives: Love

Considering a new approach to personals

I don’t know why I put the personals up. I’m not sure I really want to do anything, and if anything is going to happen and mean anything, it’s gotta be a rare person and she may or may not be perusing personals right now.

These days I am questioning whether anyone understands me or not. I’ve been through this before, but this time it seems to have less to do with physical articulation and more about being incomprehensible. It’s very scary for someone who soulfully sings along with Eric Burdon: “Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.”

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Ambivalent Songs of Love

I never want to do laundry with a woman again as long as I live. I do not want to go shopping, camping, visiting either of our families or driving in a strange city with a woman ever again. I will cook breakfast, but not lunch or dinner, and she has to stay out of the kitchen before, during and after (I’ll do the dishes, thanks anyway). If this means I live the rest of my life without ever having intimate relations with a woman again, so it goes.

In Being There, Peter Sellers as Chauncey Gardener is sitting on the edge of the bed with Shirley McLaine as Eva Rand (thank you, Wiki). Eva seems very interested in having intimate relations with Chauncey, who is transfixed by the small television in the bedroom. In a voice as gentle as a garden mister in the hands of a master, so gentle it hydrates the most delicate flowers without disturbing their petals, Chauncey tells her he wants to pay attention to the television. “I like to watch,” he says.

I like to write. I love writing the broken lines, the paragraphs, the very short stories, the odes, chansons, dreams in the daytime. I conjure spells with all the delight of a fine candymaker – sweet, rich chocolate with no hint of redeeming nutrition. I seek the melting on the tongue, disappearing as quickly as it comes. It’s often inappropriate, so I don’t write my notes to people I do business with (though I write my own social greetings and embody Savaj tributes in the message). And when it gives offense (once in six dozen times), I am truly sorry and I take care not to write there again.

After that exquisite afternoon nap with you, my love (you know who you are), I really don’t need to sleep with a woman again. It could happen, and I would be happy, but it’s not a priority. I will never be married nor cohabitate again (I swear). But I’ll write. I recently signed up with personals again – I am not going to coffee, but there are intriguing questions from time to time that bring up NoblSavaj and through him, Minotaur – all the little devices lurking deep in my tarnished, beaten romance. I write without expectation of reply or continued correspondence. I write with deep care and sincere gift with no intention, pure or otherwise.

I just thought I should add that to the disclaimers.

Birthday Card

Birthday Card

(Original Date: Sept. 11, 2007)

gary and sandy as james dean and marilyn monroe

I dreamed a movie starring us the other night:
we lived in a silver Airstream
parked in the middle of a West Texas place.
Our life, close to each other and far from everyone else,
was captured on hand-tinted black & white:
my pale pink shirt I wore as I cooked and your turquoise skirt
moved to the beat of an obscure quick blues.
Seated at the kitchen table, you laughed and talked,
backlit by sun filtered through a semicircle of yellow curtains.
A cat slept at the end of the couch. I grabbed your hand
and we danced. My arms, bare under rolled sleeves,
held you firm as we twirled across the tiny living room.
We kissed, and I brought drinks while we caught our breath.

(Original Date: about 1986)