Monday, January 26, 2015

Choose me choose me choose me

So I'm back in the dating market, which is a mix of exhausting and dispiriting. Given that I was already exhausted and dispirited, that's probably not a good thing but I'm too needy to be single for long so needs must.

I've had one date and that went well. K was very nice and I felt like we had a chance of going somewhere. Usually the way I feel about dates is I either go "fuck no" within about a minute of meeting them, feel meh all the way through and then am relieved when they're not interested in a rematch or fall in love between the end of the date and getting home. K I liked a lot and felt like she liked me.

But a couple of days later she said something had reared its head that she wanted to do more than dating me so I could fuck off.

I get a decent amount of interest. I mean, they're not queueing up but some deluded souls think I might be the man of their dreams. The problem is, they mostly don't appeal to me. They're either scary to look at or just obviously not well suited. For instance, I don't really talk politics a great deal with girlfriends unless they want to but if you vote LNP, you're probably not someone I'm going to be happy with; or if your idea of fun is to kayak, or even worse, watch motor cars, we probably don't have much in common. I mean, I'd kayak but I find people who "seek adventure" boring.

I sometimes message someone I fancy. That hasn't gone well. It's hard to do because if they don't like you, they just don't answer, and even though I'm a big boy now, I still get a little upset when women knock me back.

If it sounds like I'm saying that no even halfway attractive woman likes the look of me but a pack of mingers has formed outside my door, then yes, it's somewhat like that. I know, people are not just their looks but come on, even the most right on among us doesn't really ignore how others look, and I'm far from right on in case you thought otherwise.

Then I get to thinking, what do I have to offer them anyway?

I mean, I'm not exciting. I don't kayak. I don't go mountain biking. I don't have any strong desire to jetski.

I'm good looking to women who find me good looking, I suppose. I don't think I'm a minger but others may disagree.

I'm not in great shape, although I've recently lost a few pounds and my kids insist I don't look fat because I'm big enough to carry it. They're honest judges because they legit LOL if I suggest I might be attractive to women.

I'm quite clever but of all the virtues you can have in this world, being clever is close to the least useful. I mean, if I'd turned it into money, that's one thing, but instead I've turned it into introspection and overanalysis and no one likes that. Most of the women on dating sites say they want someone "happy". Round here, that amounts to pretending there's nothing wrong with your life. I suppose some people might actually believe there's nothing wrong with their life. Mostly, I don't even know what would be better, so not only am I not "happy" I have no idea how to become it. I suppose there's some mileage in making out that the key to happiness is the right partner. Maybe it is. But I make quite a poor dependent even.

I'm quite likely to do what I say I will do but that doesn't mean I'm trustworthy. It just means I won't offer to do things I'm not likely to do or just don't want to. And my trustworthiness is bound into how I feel about you. Ordinarily, I'm faithful and reliable but I've always believed that relationships are transactional. You don't get undying fidelity just because you're my girlfriend. You have to do stuff to make me want to be with you. I think we're all probably the same but people think labels are worth as much as actions -- at least they think other people should value them that way while not actually seeing that they themselves are obliged in the same way. So the best you could probably say is I probably won't fuck your best friend.

I'm quite thoughtful. I'll do things that show I care for you. I probably won't buy you flowers unless you really like them, but I might buy you the chocolate bar you once mentioned you like, or take you out for Thai because you told me it's your favourite a couple of weeks ago. I'll clear up after you quite often and do little things to make your life better quite a lot of the time. I'm not really into being critical of others, so you won't often, or hardly ever, hear about your flaws. Sometimes I might say something I think is constructive but not often and not in a way that is at all calculated to make you feel bad about yourself.

I'm quite affectionate. If I love you, I will tell you often and I kiss and hug people I'm close to all the time. I don't care much about sex and don't have inhibitions so you have a decent chance of getting what you want, within the bounds of my capabilities.

I'm a good listener. Or I can fake it, let's put it that way. I switch off if what you're complaining about is me or I have already heard it a dozen times, but I'm sympathetic. I have that man thing where I want to fix everything so you probably get a mix of the emotionally satisfying shoulder to cry on you were looking for and a dose of "here's a solution" that in my experience women aren't often looking for men to provide. But I can't help being goal oriented and seeing problems as things that demand an effort to solve.

I'm quite personable. I mean, I think most women like me well enough. I'm not particularly outgoing but I don't think I make people uncomfortable. I'm polite and gentlemanly at first meeting. You could probably take me home to meet your mother without too much fear. I'm not particularly good at small talk but I'll remember things we talked about online or that were in your profile and say things that are vaguely appropriate.

What a fine catch! We haven't even done the bad points yet. If you read this blog, you already know I'm lazy and dishonest, have a temper, am selfish, vain, neglectful and sometimes ridiculous. I am dirt poor (although I'm generous when I have money) and I have no serious drive or ambition. I spend way too much time online (although I feel like if you were willing to suggest other things to do, I'd do them; it's just my default). You are probably right to look elsewhere.

Still, I'm hopeful that before long I'll have hooked up with another grossly unsuitable woman who will make me unhappy in most respects to the point that I start to think yes, it's me not you. I keep telling myself it's just a function of the women I attract but once you build a track record of it, you have to wonder whether it really is just that you're a miserable prick who brings out the worst in the borderline insane.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Ragged claws

Forty-eight years old and you are no one. In a world made of money, your only value is to work, consume and die without troubling anyone too much.

Sometimes you feel as though you are entirely separate from the world and cannot touch it. Sometimes you feel as though if you were gone, scarcely anyone would notice. They would just say, oh him, and go back to wondering what to have for tea. Sometimes you feel as though you do not consist in anything.

Sometimes you feel as though you swam out from shore on a sunny spring day and never were able to return. Sometimes you feel as though there will never be a way to put your feet back down on solid ground.

No one is coming to rescue you.


I fall in love between the end of the first date and arriving home. I fall in love because I need it not because I have anything to give you. Sometimes I feel as though I have only ever loved one woman. Sometimes I feel as though I doubt even that. When you make a story and try with everything you have to make it feel as though it is real, you have to rely on your imagination.

And I am not an imaginative man. If I was, I would write about worlds that do not exist and not the one that does.

Sometimes I feel as though I have loved many women. Sometimes I feel as though I have tried. Sometimes I feel as though that should count for something.

But I never gave anything. How could I? I have nothing to give.

Sometimes I feel as though all I want is forgiveness.

Sometimes I feel as though I have loved you for 20 years and sometimes I think I dreamed it up just to never have to love anyone at all.

No one is coming to rescue me. I'm going to have to find a way to drown.


It is like there is no way to mesh these gears. Sometimes it feels as though I want to be worth something. Sometimes it feels as though I want to give.

You can fool yourself for a short while but you know that you only want to take. You do not know how to be anything other than ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas, wishing you were not alone in the dark.


Sometimes I wake in the dawn and for a moment I do not understand the noise of the birds. Then I realise, they are no different from us. They feel free but they will also die. They are also restless.

They are not unknowable. They are not mysterious. They have a beginning and an end. They do not care about their limits.

Friday, January 16, 2015

The perfect kiss

Sometimes I think about kissing you. I mean, having kissed you; I don't think I ever will again.

I say think but I mean remember. But it is such an exquisite memory it is almost as though I must have created it by force of will. It is not just a kiss but how a kiss should be. It is the yardstick for all kisses I have had since. I am fond of kissing but only for so long: you I could kiss all night and never tire of it.

And I think, that is how it is to me. How it is to you I have no idea. Maybe you've had better. I have no illusions. I'm good at it in the same halfarsed way I'm good at most things I try. I see the rules; I follow the rules. A rule is that it is for you not just for me but I don't know how you even judge things like that.

I often wonder about how things are. We know as best as we can know anything how things are to us. And it's limited by how we are able to know. But I often wonder how it is for the person I am with. Sometimes they tell you but words are poor shadows of what it is.

Is there such a thing as the perfect kiss? It can only be perfect for me or perfect for you, right? I used to laugh with B at how bad people kiss. They do the Hungry Dog or the Cat at the Cream, or their mouth becomes a churning washing machine of tongue and spit. I didn't like how she kissed but I never told her. There was no way to.

She told me many things she did not like about me.


When I think about what's real, I think about three spheres of reality. Not that there are three spheres, or any spheres, or fewer than any number. It's just how I think about it so that I can think about it at all.

There is what there is. The world and the things in it. It appears to be certain ways to us but we have learned that it's not those ways at all. Reality is distant from the picture of it our brains are able to create. I don't mean brains create reality in a substantial way. I think the real is real. But a brain can only represent things to itself in certain ways, whether through the pure action of the senses or through reason and number.

So it is impossible to talk about what is real because we have no machinery even to engage with it, let alone describe it to each other. We only know some of the ways it manifests. I do not believe you can become enlightened and "see" it or comprehend it at all. I think you become enlightened when you are clear in your mind that you cannot and you are able to accept that with equanimity.

Then there is what people do. It is all stimulus and response but the ways we respond are complex because the rules for our interactions are complex. We imbibe them as we grow. Our actions are shaped in myriad small ways, tiny adjustments conditioned by what we see, what is done to us and by us, and how those things make chemicals wash through our brains.

Have you ever realised you are an automaton? Have you ever stopped and thought, I do not know why I am doing what I am doing; I just seem to be doing it? Have you ever wondered whether you could even choose to do it? Have you ever felt you were the helpless jockey of a runaway horse?

Sometimes I wonder why there is such a gap between what I think and what I feel. I know I do not exist. I know I am an automaton. I know that if I look "inside" there's no there there. There is just a brain representing the world -- and itself -- to itself. And surely that means that ultimately, with no free will there can be no responsibility.

Yet I prize responsibility. I prize the willingness to say that you will take care of what you should take care of and then you do it. Maybe I hold it a virtue because I am responsible.

I do not mean I am trustworthy. No one impulsive really can be. All you can do is try not to promise too much. But keeping promises is not the core of responsibility as I see it. Accepting what you should do for the sake of equity is closer to it. And it is like everything limited by how able you are. I think a strong lesson I have learned in life is to be forgiving of those who are as responsible as they are able to be. But I still don't care for those who fall short of their abilities.

It is irresponsible to care only about yourself. That is why I care how my kisses are to you. That is why I care what people think. Because whether you are doing good or ill is not something you can always judge for yourself.

Perhaps people who do just please themselves are wiser than I am. Or perhaps they do not exist but are merely people who are good at looking as though they don't care but care just as much without its being apparent. Perhaps I appear that way to you. It is among the things I least like about myself that this is possible.

The third sphere is ourselves. Reality begins and ends within your head. Nothing is realler than yourself, we all feel that.

Sometimes I feel like I am something small that lives within myself. I feel that small thing looking out through my eyes, and it has no part of the accretions that you, looking at me, might call me. It does not have beliefs. It does not have understanding of the world around it. It simply looks out with terror that it cannot name.

I believe it is my restless heart. I believe it expands and contracts with love. I believe it is the thing that if it could speak would have been saying, This is a kiss, when we kissed.

It is hurt because it is trapped within a web of interactions in my brain, the thoughts, feelings and ideas that spin around pretending to be a human being.

It is not real. I know it is just some patch of cells, if it is even that, some group of neurons that responds to this or that chemical and represents the outcome as a signal that passes through different parts of my brain and evokes the feeling of a quivering hind.

I think of the brain as a community, rather than a group of functions. Members of that community try to influence other members by using chemicals. I say, try to influence but there is no agency. The cells do it quite mindlessly. Feelings are simply irruptions in the community. 

But patches of cells are real enough, aren't they? And chemicals that evoke feelings are real too. But these things are real in the first sphere -- they are parts of the material world. And they might provoke things that appear real in the second sphere -- they might motivate behaviour that you cannot understand because none of it is really anything you can control. Because you are an illusion of being that controls nothing and you cannot know it because in the third sphere, by some magic of chance, you have convinced yourself that the million splinters of acculturation and memory, stimulus and response are actually a coherent entity. It is almost as though we hear the noise of the sea and think it is the sea.


Still, I liked it. I felt like I no longer existed, that I could disappear and be content. I liked it as much as I've ever liked anything. I liked that it was you. I could close my eyes and think of nothing but kissing you, and you would be an inchoate goodness, no longer a person of parts, no longer the memories I had of you, no longer anything but the kiss that you bestowed on me.

I do not know how it was created, what magic of chemistry built the sensation, but I liked it. For a moment, the small, easily bruised, timid fawn within me flourished, grew to encompass my whole world and felt that it had touched what it knew could be but had feared would never be.

What difference does it make that I am or I am not if I feel that I am? Isn't it just the same as looking at rocks, trees and sea? They may be things we create out of a reality too difficult to represent as it is but they are what they are to us. They make no sense in any other way. Even if we spend some small time thinking about what they really are, we soon tire of the impracticality. We were born to manipulate the world -- literally and symbolically -- and concepts that we can do nothing with we don't waste too much energy on.

Bees dance and we think they do not know what they are doing. They dance in patterns that give directions to food. They convey information without knowing that they are doing it or knowing what they're seeing when they receive it. Or so we believe.

But I wonder. Perhaps a bee, a social being, is delighted to share its knowledge of where food is with its fellows. Perhaps it feels real joy when it dances. Perhaps it too has a small inner bee that swells when it is delighted by what it is doing.

I know I am an automaton but even automata like to be kissed.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

I know you are lonely

Sometimes I cannot live another day. I get up, drink coffee and get on with it. I tell myself, At least put on a brave face. But this doesn't take courage. It takes fear.

When I was a child, I thought I was from some distant planet and my people had left me here to moulder among a species I could never understand. Now I know. I know you feel this way too, when you strip away what you think makes you. I know you are a howling void just like me and if you stop for a moment being who you are, you too will implode and become no one.

I know you believe stories that you cannot question because the alternative is a solitude deeper than you can bear. I believe them too.

Asking how I got here drives me crazy. Asking what road I took implies there was another. There was no other. One day I was not here and the next I was and there was no choice because there is no choice in anything.

Reach out to me, sometimes I say. Reach out to me and share my skin. No one has. Why would anyone want to reside in here? I know I don't. It's the only thing I know for sure.

My new year's resolution is to do nothing, be nothing, to cease to exist. This being isn't working but I cannot have a new one.

How many times have I imagined that I would one day grow? As though there were a template, a thing I could grow into. But there are only accretions, wrapped too tight around a void I am perpetually terrified to confront.


Sometimes when I sit down to write something, I don't know what I will say but I know I will tell the truth. I know it because I don't care who disapproves. No one can think less of me than me.

I do not even think I am here. I know you are lonely but are you afraid?


Sometimes I say, cmon baby, I did not do the things you think I did. And I'm not even sure that's true because if you think it, what else can I have done?

Sometimes I say, love me. And I know all I mean is wrap me up tightly, make me be real, touch me so that I know not everything outside me will hurt me.

All I mean is I want to fool you into making an empty shell mean something, just like we did as children when we held them up to our ears and thought we could hear the sea. The sea never spoke. It turned and moved on. It never said a word and never will until the day it says, Enough.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

On the ball

 Catherine Bennett contrasts Roman Polanski and Ched Evans.

Well Polanski should be shunned like the dog he is, but is Ms Bennett seriously surprised at the different treatment of a bourgeois film director and a working-class footballer?

Footballers are in any case seen by most as Peter Pans, boys who never grow out of the playground, and need to be disciplined by stern masters so that they can achieve what they are capable of because they do not really have agency of their own. They are paid millions to be boy wonders and we believe that along with their performance on the pitch, and the training they do to be ready for that, we have also bought from them adherence to an unwritten code of conduct that infantilises them (within the terms of our culture). They may not drink, they may not smoke, they may not swear, they must be smart and presentable. If they are not, we will only grudgingly cheer them, and if we are not cheering, there is no ambience for the matches on TV. And that won't do.