Friday, January 19, 2007

Oolong and Vodka (X)

Dear Diary,


I am a dishonest man. I attempted an impossible transference in order to exorcise past demons. It worked, to an extent. I knew Alana. I knew what she would say. I also knew who I could attach her response to as well, that insufferable demon. I have done a magnificent job alienating those who I have encountered over my quarter-century on this planet. I yearned for an ever-elusive closure. Rather than continuing to struggle towards it, I constructed the end. First, I displaced my past with a hopeful future with Alana, a contemporary of past demons. I knew the deal. I saw the writing on the wall. I had to deceive myself; to construct an illusion that would leave some hope for an impossible dream - as I had in the past. I thought of her constantly, performing an odd alchemy: melding the dream of Vancouver Island to her, and displacing a lost fantasy with a 'resurrected' one. It worked to an extent. For a month, Alana displaced her place in those saccharine dripped illusions. I love Alana for that. I love her unwittingly flirtatious manner; how she unconsciously strung me along. But I'm a dupe that way. Part of me really wanted her; that part was the dupe. The other part wanted the scars and the eventual recovery; that was the schemer. The schemer won out, hopefully doing away with the dupe once and for all. Am I sad? A bit. Am I suicidal? Far from it. This is freedom. I am free again. I had to take that position of the jerk; the guy who goes after another guy's girl. I had to. The schemer needed a certain set of circumstances, and that September night laid it out quite precisely. Well, of course, the course of events was initiated far earlier, in 20--. I had mistaken the two fantasies long ago, the idyllic one and the alternate. Sorry to say, I even needed to drag Henry into it. The players of a past game had to return for its long awaited conclusion. Vince made a brief appearance as the soothsayer: he knew it was all going to end badly, even on that wretched night of oolong and vodka. That's all I needed. It was, if nothing else, a matter of repetition. I revisited the loathsome event, through a circuitous set of machinations. I could not stand its recollection; it had to be done away with. That email, ironically enough, is the new adaptation of THE letter. It was honest, and, well, better written. It laid out the things I wanted to say to her, and addressed them to Alana. Alana, good old reliable upstanding rationalist Alana, noted my apparent insanity; and the deed was done, the alchemy complete. The fact that she suspected that some sort of machination was happening was beautiful. She is smart as a tack sometimes. Alana is always enchanting, but I don't think I could ever stand her for more than a night. She craves normalcy, at least the appearance of being a very moral person – but underneath it she is a back scratching whore. Yes, there's something subtly superficial about her. But that applies to me as well. My superficiality is a matter of nerves and an irreparably damaged self-esteem. She wants normalcy a little too much. She embraces the stereotypes, but act as if there's something more to it. I can never understand my brief attraction. It may be that I reached the bottom of my rope and had to just cut the damn thing. The bottom of the barrel, the end, would have been to settle for an even more barren land than Alana. I love her nonetheless. I would have loved her real well, like I said, for one night. I stand here to confess that. If I were to proposition her for a night of unchained guilt-free passion, she would be repulsed, offended, but I suspect there is some part of her – however deeply repressed it may be – that would be intrigued if not oddly aroused. And I love that too. Maybe one day in a mutually vulnerable moment, it will happen and all demons will be exorcised. Hence, it has come back to the beginning. Alone and without prospects – I begin again. I feel nothing now - only the necessary emptiness to begin again. J.


Dear Diary,

A hundred and one failures before you find what you're looking for. A simple path to self-annihilation snakes to and fro. Self-esteem and self-confidence are terribly irrelevant at this juncture; they have perished long ago. You are a man without direction - failure your only telos. Go in search with a smile on your face for inevitable rejection. "No, you are not qualified. No, you're an ugly man. No, you're just not my type." Everybody has his or her excuses. Every sanctimonious word shrouds righteous narcissism with layer after layer of egalitarian airs. Everybody fucking lies; and worse of all, they lie indiscriminately, they lie constantly, they, masters of self-deception, convince themselves of a lie. They don't want to deal with me. I'm a fucking mongoloid, a degenerate, and a loser according their unctuous estimations.

I awake to nightmarish visions of her - those impossible images of us together again. Those images that never will be. I can't take it anymore. I want the scars to numb the pain. But the anesthesia has no affect. I'll tear out the sutures and let blood erupt from the wound. Bloodletting either allows an organism to heal or die silently. Those are the stakes; to die or to live again. I can't do either with her churning in my mind. Torment ravages me, the weak man in love with lovely impossibilities.

Fuck it. Forget everything I said. I love you. I love you still, -----. It’s always been you. This impossible love that shall go perpetually unrequited, this is what I feel for you. I want you. I want you in my lap, in my arms, in my bed. I want your lovely voice in my ear. I want your hand entwined with mine. I want you, body and soul. These impossibilities torment me. They ravage me. They threaten to destroy me. Time and again, I repress rather than express sanguine desire. I love you -----. I always will, as much as I have tried to convince myself otherwise. I love you, darling, now and forever - regardless of cruel circumstances that conspire to separate us. I can't deny it anymore. I am doomed without you.

This bland colourlessness is what passes for life, this wretched life without you. I'm stuck. I'm stuck to the memory of you. I'm stuck to an imagined and impossible us. I'm withering away. Freedom? Careless...I'm a moron...I can't do this...I can't act macho...I want you.

The transference was impossible; it failed miserably. The demon's grip is strong as ever.

I can't sleep. I know she will be there as I slip into slumber. Stay awake, stay away. Stay awake, stay away. Stay awake, stay away...

"Isn't it obvious? It's turtles all the way down."


Jorge