Personalsby j jackson |
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WANTED - PARTNER
Someone to pay attention to me. Women only need apply. Age irrelevant, but stupid young girls are at a disadvantage, as are women with young children, women who smoke (tobacco), women who experience an alteration of personality when they drink, such as turning into flirtatious sluts who threaten otherwise stable relationships, and women who play games in general. Sex okay, if disease-free. Apply only after much thought and consideration.
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I am not, who I am. To get to know me
you have to understand, who I am not.
On the lawn, beneath huge trees with no lower branches, between
the university buildings in the far distance and the wilds of the park, we lie, excited but pretending to be sane. I know you from before; you were a friend of a good friend of mine. In a sense, you are she, everything I remember, about how she was: you have the same breasts, though yours are smaller and less firm, the same inviting way, confronting me, the directness, attraction. You are soft, as she, your shoulders want to be caressed, to feel me sink my face into the fleshy space between the neck and bone of the shoulder, but I do not, which causes you dismay. You do not understand me, why I stay away. You see, I know what you are. And yet you do not see. You do not (want me) to believe it, you do not want to believe it, you want to be, something else, for me, you want to change and you believe, for a short while, that, with me, it is possible. In this primordial place, where ordinary life has been excluded, for a while, you think, you see, something different, in me. But I see the same old thing in you. You don't understand why I am here, if I want to act toward you the way you want to act toward the me you think I am, because I am, only partially: The trees above us quake and shutter. High wind disturbs the tops, transmitting movement through stabile trunks into the ground, below us. We talk about ordinary things, as if this is not occurring. A strange guy obviously not a student, approaches the wall of the old ball field before they tore it down, all except that low left field wall. He stands there looking, at us, that is, in our direction, except that we can't know it, he is too far away, and yet we do, but we don't say it, but we think it, separately, each pretending we don't know, like we don't know ourselves, each thinking we are too cool to ever allow the other to feel the threat we feel. Finally, you say, "Let's go," before the guy, a black guy, decides he can approach us, as if we are too vulnerable alone beneath the trees in the tame woods which has become more wild in these latter times. Late that night, after you have gone home, after we have, sort of, explained ourselves to each other and you can't accept that I want only to be a friend who can feel love without a physical attachment, I go to bed next to Ellen, who will not have anything to do with me because I will not have anything to do with her either, any more, except that we will occasionally share the same small single bed, lying, back to back, because it's the only place that I can sleep except the floor, after I so generously gave her my bed, and now, she thinks, I might have come to regret it, when everyone else has a place to sleep but me, in this old communal bedroom, but not true: I am as gracious as I've ever been, despite the strain we feel between us, attracted and repelled. Occasionally, throughout the night, I cannot help but touch her. I'll awaken to feel a shoulder twisted back against her back, or a leg against hers, or we will be in buttocks contact. Impossible untouching in this small bed. I dream, of her. All the time. I am, a fool, to torture myself, and her, with my foolish distance, just because she is so flippant in her nature and insists she doesn't do the things she does when she becomes a drunk, rebellious spirit. I dream of this activity all night, and in the morning I know why I cannot touch her any more, until the next night I have to sleep alone on the floor. I awaken to the movement of Ellen as she throws a crumbled page of paper, I remember hearing crinkling in my dream before I had awoken, at Jimmy in a bed across the room, to awaken him, because we have no alarm, she is our alarm, she awakens when she sets her mind, to it, she says she never dreams, and Jimmy always awakens at the slightest touch of the paper when it bounces off of him, and he says he doesn't know how it happens, because he is such a sound sleeper. Ellen struggles to get out from beneath the blanket I am lying on, pinning her down. She pulls at it, more and more vehemently as I will not fully awaken. I try to turn to allow her to get free, but we become more entangled. She laughs, not a lot, just a tiny giggle, but it's enough, in most cases such as this she would get mad, and so I can't resist, I don't even think about it, it's automatic, I lean down and kiss her, opened mouthed and fully, because she wanted me to, also without thinking, and then we regain our composure, say "Good morning," sweetly, each, and go our separate ways again. Ellen has left the room. I sit on a wooden chair, putting on my shoes. Paul crosses the room toward me saying, "So, what's going on here, huh?" Although I've known him since childhood, he's new to this place and he doesn't know. I can be so cool when I want to be, when I'm not involved with women. "What?" I say. "You and..." he jerks his head toward the door, meaning to indicate Ellen. I already know what he means. I hate him for mentioning the obvious. "Nothing." He looks at me as if he doesn't believe me, as if he thinks I think he's a fool. I do. He should understand far more than he does by this time in his life. |
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DRESSES OPTIONAL
I like women in light, cotton, knee-length, billowing summer dresses,
the kind that promise a glimpse of something intimate when sitting. |
Far Away
Sometimes things I'm looking at seem very far away.
Things I'm looking at up close I mean, things too near to be, so far, from close examination. This is mental phenomena, not physical perception. I am distanced. |
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The Girl Next Door
She looks like a girl I had known,
appearing forever in dreams now as the same person over and over again, coming up from behind, me preoccupied, 2 not at all seeing her approach, so that I, pleasantly surprised, think she is someone else, acting accordingly. Or she is me, sneaking up on myself, alone, wishing, I had known her, better. She is several people now. Brown hair sometimes dyed black. Long dark hair wet from a shower.3 She always says hello, waiting for me, to do more than respond. I disappoint women that way. |
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WAITING - FOR YOU
I can be so patient any more. I have learned, that to pursue my desires and dreams is to ask for trouble, when my karma is disturbed, when I will not be spiritually ready for what I want. I believe that what you really need will come to you, and to go too far out of your way to find it is to set yourself up for later disappointment and failure. You should get to know me first, before you decide if I am the right guy. Visit my Websites, read my work. I am in there, hidden sometimes, but I am there. Find me, and then contact me.
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Waiting for the Veil to Lift
Having to wait so long,
we become waiting rooms.
--Jean Cocteau,
Le Testement D'Orphée
Waiting, theory, is, for:
motivationinspirationcontemplation
or dream, or wisp of life,
a meditation, indicative of a reality beyond superficial mundane everyday concerns, I am a part of, while away the hours, pass in reverie of fantasy, actively searching images and mental structures for, meaning not specific to world politic polluting pieces with sensible words too tight for a generalization to reality hidden beneath a mystery veil.
This is imperfection, words. Perfection goes beyond
thinking, we know, in a large bureaucratic room where I have been summoned, I don't remember when to account for something, some behavior I don't remember, what, probably lots of behaviors, there have been lots of them, wayward ones, unaccounted for, unprocessed, never categorized. I sit in a row of metal folding chairs, in line, with many others, our backs to the windows, waiting. We fill out forms and wait our turns, to be seen. Eventually I must go up and see the bureaucrat. He's a nice man, but distant, telling me what to do. I must complete and sign my form, on the back of the envelope I put it into. But I blow it, my name. I know I know my name, but I can't write it, words. [Filling out forms is one thing, when you must make check marks in little squares, but signing your name is quite another thing altogether.] I can't get it right. I cross out my first attempt, afraid that it will negate the validity of my information. He doesn't mind me, it seems, he's attending to other matters, but when he sees it, will he object? I begin to sign again, but it's even worse this time. He looks my way, at me. I apologize, with a facial expression I feel, which he disregards. I sign my name again, this time managing to miss the missing capitals and letters. It's more or less correct, not perfect, just okay. I think, handing it to him, he will reject it, but he pays no attention, dropping it in with the rest. I return to my seat. I think it may be getting near time to leave. But we begin, as a group, first, to act together in a kind of game we play, passing pictures of stained glass images up and down our rows of chairs ringing the room along windows on its three sides. (The fourth side is his cubicle, where the man's office work is done, a narrow side, whereas two of our three rows of chairs are long.) We're supposed to be learning something important from this exercise, but I can't fathom what it is. He changes the rules, and instead we begin to pass insubstantial consequences, meaning, from person to person. This is less difficult, to understand, being mental constructs we pass every day between us, not the exact group of us, but similar people in everyday life, but I am at a loss, nonetheless, but less so than when the images were real. The girl to my left places her forearm on my thigh, her palm up, holding out an imaginary offering. My hand rests forward near my knee, our forearms touching. I like this game, contact. I do not want to take what it is she offers; this will cause her to remove her arm. So we remain as we are, silent, except for our touch failing to even acknowledge each other. And then a new game begins. We are told to rise and walk toward the room's center, but only if we feel compelled or inspired to do so. [It suddenly occurs to me that this is not bureaucracy.] Most of us rise. Only a few remain in their chairs. [I would have thought, I would have been, one of those.] The girl and I remain in touch, our forearms entwined, awkwardly. I want to take her hand, but I do not. Questions begin to arise in me I have no answers for: Why am I here? What is this purpose, my purpose? How am I supposed to relate to this group of strangers? I realize I have not been so alone. Everyone must feel this way, I think. I relax. I remember, sitting in my chair thinking the same thing, refusing to attend the thought. I remember realizing without fully focusing, an idea, which I feel come into a fuller fruition now as we near the center of the room: we know each other, without words. Words are unnecessary. This is why I did not want to speak to the girl next to me, or to one on my right. Others speak, which others, myself included, know is wrong---or not wrong, but insincere. They spout words to alleviate their doubt, their insecurity, their fear. I feel this too, but I have never been a speaker. I hide these fears away, so that no one will know, or know less readily, seeing them unwittingly revealed through loquacious behavior, yet they are revealed through taciturnity. We cannot be revealed, but we are seen. [The world is a dangerous place, always, but especially when ingesting controlled substances before entering government buildings.] We are colors, we have always been. I am blue, and the girl is blue too, and everyone, blue, or magenta, or bright yellow. We coagulate in the center of the room, into colors like stained glass, each of us a different segment of the whole, some of us, standing out, others blending in. The girl whose hand I do not hold is tinted with a purple glow, as if she were less blue than pink, but she is a certain blue. A girl we meet from across the room is blue-white, the same blue with white streaks running through her. As soon as it forms, the group begins to break apart into splinter groups. We want to, I want to, return to our chairs. Many people do, or to different chairs with new-found friends, as a chattering has arisen. We, the three of us, have not spoken, white streaks accentuating the silence. We leave her there as she turns away. Back at our chairs I finally take the hand. We communicate, complicated thoughts, without words. We see, elsewhere, throughout the room, despite noise, people communicate silently, in small groups. We know we can join them, any time we want. We reveal each other, ourselves, knowing, each thought we will hold, in communion. There is nothing we cannot know, of each other. The detail is profound, all faults, all fears revealed, intentionally, so that we will not surprise each other later on. We return, again and again, to the idea that we should leave, abscond together. But we reject that imperfection-motive, knowing it can only be far less than what we are here now. Even having taken each other by the hand is wrong, maybe. Eventually, we let go, remaining at first in touch, but even then, separating, aware we are not two beings, despite our different colors. I point out her secondary color, of which she is aware, and she remarks (there are no words for this process other than words which denote or connote words) I am a solid and "pure" blue. I wonder what this means and she thinks she does not know. Each time she, or I, think we will act to break the perfection we are, we counter it, remaining, perfectly aware, yet incomplete, others being separate. We decide it is right that we include others, and we go back across the room to rejoin the blue-white girl, who knows we are coming, as we know her, so does not try to hide away even though, we know, this is what she wants to do. Her white streaks are her jealousy, which I admit to also, but I have no streaks because I will not entertain it. We both want exclusivity with the girl whose hand I no longer hold, which makes the other girl somewhat more content. She believes she can handle the situation, despite herself. We feel, although we wish we could remain alone together, we should include others in our group, and so we do. We stand quietly alone, now four of us, and then, now five. I see a few other silent groups amid a talking mass. There is less perfection in larger silent groups because we must switch back and forth between us, one on one to counter each different propensities which will, if left alone, diverge, into a physical world where ordinary mentality will prevail. After what seems to be forever, we return, I and the two girls, to the chairs, where we try to plan our future, which we know is a violation of our mutual trust. I feel, as they do, that to leave now will be to lose touch, but to leave together, to return to our ordinary lives, will be to become...ordinary. We want to go on, silently, together, but we fear losing our present proximity will break us apart permanently. I know, if I ever see them again, I will immediately recognize the connection, like I often do, with everyone, when they will not know, but that's the problem, they know, they will not know, and I will have to tell them, in words, that they will never really understand. And so, all I will be able to do is exist, as I have done, alone together, never fully understanding others, know, when they think they do not, or I do not, apart because we lack the confidence to know ourselves together. |
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SEX
I think about it all the time, imagining I'm lying between the legs of some sweet honey. I awaken out of sleep to images of a woman I had only seen a day or so earlier, and immediately in my imagination I adopt a sexual agenda. Not that I would ever act on it. The practical limitations are all but insurmountable, when action will bring consequences I would never want. But I think about it, all the time.
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§ I am in a museum-type room in Oakland, which is somewhat suggestive of a funeral home, or a formal greeting area for some official, high-class function. I am standing toward the center of the room, behind a plush sofa, speed-reading a nicely-bound, but poorly-made book (it's pages are not printed, but copied, on that slick thermal paper, with partially handwritten notations in the "margins" where there is also print.) There is a hurricane lamp and a small green-blue sculpture on a small table against the wall behind me. The book I am reading describes these items in artistic terms and illustrates them in detail. The word parsimony is used as a primary focal point of the descriptions and is a theme (echoing in my mind.) The sculpture is narrow, about a foot or so high and four inches wide, and rounded, curvilinear. The hurricane lamp is ordinary, yet significant, and is without a globe, which is significant in some unknown way that has to do with the parsimony theme.
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This is a feeling I am, sometimes, when the world insists upon
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DON'T YOU MONKEY WITH THE MONKEY
Psychologists have conducted what has become a classic monkey experiment:
They put a number of monkeys into a large cage, in the center of which they place a banana hung above an insulated staircase. Eventually, one of the monkeys will climb the stairs to try to get the banana. When he does, all of the other monkeys receive an electric shock through the metal floor of the cage. This is repeated for several days every time a monkey tries to climb the stairs.
Subsequently, after the shocks are no longer administered, when a monkey tries to approach the stairs, the other monkeys will attack it to keep it from climbing them. They have learned to protect themselves by keeping their fellow monkeys away from the staircase. Next, one of the monkeys is replaced with a new one that has never been shocked. The new monkey will try to ascend the stairs to get the banana, but the trained monkeys will attack it to stop it. The new monkey quickly realizes that if it approaches the stairs, it will be attacked, so it learns to stay away. One by one, each of the original monkeys is replaced with new ones. As each new monkey approaches the stairs, he is attacked by all of the monkeys, even the ones who were never shocked. They have learned the behavior from the other monkeys. Each new monkey in his turn learns to attack any monkey who approaches the stairs, even though it has no idea why it does it. When all the monkeys have been replaced, and even though none of the monkeys in the cage has ever been shocked, no monkey will approach the stairs. Why? If you could ask one of the monkeys, it'd probably tell you "That's the way we've always done it here." |
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SOMEONE ELSE
I have the right to be,
the way I am, no matter
how naive, innocent, overbearing, disturbed,
anxiety-ridden, doubtful, worried, fearful,
paranoid, fucked-up a person I turn out to be,
seen as (because I exaggerate those tendencies
in the way I communicate, in person and via
the written word, directly or via my demeanor.)
I am not a perfectly-placed person.
I am, nothing, more, than me.
I've had a hard time being myself. I've always been myself (who hasn't?), but I always feel that people would rather I were someone else. And so, I've felt I had to be alone, separated out, since others expect me to be someone I am not.
I don't feel like I belong in this world; No, that's not true.
I don't feel like I belong in this society. Yes. That's it.
But strangely enough, I do feel that I belong in this culture.
(Postmod culture spans the society, globally.)
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IMPERFECTION
I am constantly focused upon that which I am not. I am not an ordinary person. Given this propensity toward recognizing the discrepancy between that which I am and that which you, as an imperfect woman, are looking for, I am always going to feel that you are looking for someone else and will only be settling for me if you would choose to spend your time with me. But then, I know that this is always the case between two people, except when they will decide that it is otherwise.
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Formal RelationshipsSome (most?) people have a different purpose when they write, so that their style takes on a more formal, structured tone. Not me. Informality is my benchmark. I live the way I do because it's the way I think, thought being mainfest in the relationship between life and art. If you want to establish a formal relationship with me, like being my boss, or my father, or a government official, or my publisher, or my editor, or my accountant, or, like, my wife, or "lover," or "sweetheart," or any other label you may think of, when you are in an authoritarian/sentimental frame of mind, trying to concretize fluid life experience into a "stable" state of affairs, where you are you and I am me, forget it. I consider formal relationships less than honest and truthful. You are not you, I am not, me, we are, not we, but free and she is he and we are all together, not one thing, but many, unestablished, until we set put our minds to it and create a thing unable to connect as we first did because we've defined it all away. All formal writing feels stilted to me. When I experience it, I imagine a gaggle of grammarians sitting around a board table dryly discussing rules of proper punctuation and aesthetics. All formal living feels stilted to me. When I experience it, I imagine a collection of mannikins sitting around a dining room table doing each other's hair, talking about things they don't know. |
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Split infinitives, for example, seem natural to me. To always separate them out suggests pretension. It has been said (in The Crush, if no where else) that split infinitives call undue attention to the adverb. Au contraire. Writing in ways which do not reflect ordinary speech is what calls attention to itself. We do not say, always to separate out, or to separate out, always. This correction calls attention to itself, because it's not ordinary. I'm not against non-ordinary writing. Do it if you want to. We should all do what we want. I'm just explaining why I write the way I do. If we are, to be, separate, a split infinitive, I am thinking, we are, a less than perfect couple. Text, which we all are, in one way or another, defies delineation along consensually established lines. Hypertext is a more accurate metaphor, linking one text to another (to another, to another, to...) If we are not one text, we are separately linked. We are more hypertext than print. It might take another century to bury it, but print is dead. |
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A ZEN KIND OF LOVE
Enlightenment felt in my heart, seen through my eyes, experienced in my presence, is, just. I fulfill my purpose, bringing to those who encounter me and look into my soul, enlightenment as they bring enlightenment to me. Enlightenment does not exist alone. We are, enlightened together, or not. Enlighten me with your presence. Fulfill my longing to be, in a world other than this one of imperfection.
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I do not expect a woman, more likely to be given over to comfort, a more comfortable existence, to want to live the way I do, just to be with me. I live minimally, meditatively. I am proud of my life. I don't live this way because I have to, although, now, I do, unless I would change in order to accommodate life with another person. I live this way because it is the life I choose, stress-free, security assured through the apportionment of funds out across my future, and then some. I live in a world of thought, which requires little sustenance to keep it going. I would have a woman with me, but there is none, apparently, who is willing to share the bareness of the life I lead, filled with only love and not much else. Oh, I know. They say they will, until it comes right down to it and they have to sit around a house all night because we can't afford to go anywhere substantial. When they get antsy, I get worried. It means they're not far from being gone, or half-gone, out among the others. Boring. When I first saw the film The Zero Effect, it was a revelation, an affirmation of my lifestyle. It didn't matter at all to me that its impetus was satiric, that it looked sarcastically at that style of life. The mere fact of its depiction was enough to spur me. I like films that I can ride like horses, speeding my life along toward its ultimate conclusion, filling it with lots of nothing, which is what everyone does, pretending to a significance life does not possess. Life is its own purpose; the whole point of life is to procreate and die. Lest you think, however, that this means it doesn't have a goal, its goal is beyond us, which we interpret as and assume is God. And maybe it is, but if so, we don't know it, unless it knows us through what we are, and not vice versa. This is a long way around saying: to live with someone may endanger your soul, when you forget about what's important, to you, to appease another in order to have become attached, which is the way most people believe they are supposed to live out their lives. I too want, to be, attached, and I am, but to a lesser degree. But I can't expect anyone else to want to live this way, like me, especially because sometimes I am a hypocrite and give in to the baser instincts of a multiplistic, capitalistic culture/society and in those instances it appears that I am merely selfish, which I am, which is another reason, perhaps, I don't expect a woman to put up with me, ignoring the fact that she, in her own way, is the same. I have my own comfort level, not as elaborate as many others, but it is comfort nonetheless. |
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FRENCH A PLUS
French girls look like women, even when they're very young. American women try to look like girls, even when they're older. I'm not looking for a girl, I'm looking for a woman, who, if she happens to look like a girl, well, that's okay, but probably not if she's an American. If English is not you're first language, that's a plus too. An inability to speak a word of English is a big plus. Speech is very overated, leading to as much confusion as understanding.
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A Conversation |
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LUCK
I would say that I haven't had too much luck with women,
but I suspect that luck hasn't had too much to do with it. |
Complaint |
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I WANT WHAT, NO ONE WANTS
I want to be in love, in a desperate way. But I don't necessarily want to want to have sex. I mean, I do want it, very much, all of the time. But I don't want the consequences, and I just don't mean physically, like diseases, kids, a nagging lover, etc. I've gotten to the point in life where I can look ahead, understanding that love with sex evokes agendas dissimilar from my typical-male/atypical-asocial ones. But love now, that's a universal motive: I want to be in love, to be loved, but not if it means I must surrender, a part of myself I hold inviolate. It's better to be celibate in love--but no woman wants that, do they?
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SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME
I need an editor, someone who will scan my journals for publishable material, suggest what she thinks is commercial enough to submit to publishers, even being hip enough to the business as to suggest which publishers (though this comes with simple experience), prompt (without nagging) me to finish the piece into a completed work, mail it out for me, follow its progress, etc. Of course, I can't afford to actually pay anyone to do this. (But there are fringe benefits.) This is a part of what I mean by "partner," but it is not an essential part. It's only an idle fantasy. I am self-sufficient, even though I am under-published because I am loathe to do these kinds of day-to-day routines.
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Independence
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Isolation
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| Huggable............... | Fat. |
| Svelte................... | Anorexic. |
| Dynamic............... | Pushy. |
| Independent.......... | Crazy. |
| Free-Spirited......... | Crazy and irresponsible. |
| Uninhibited........... | Lacking basic social skills. |
| Young at Heart...... | Over 40 and hating it. |
| Youthful............... | Over 50 and in major denial. |
| Soulful................. | Manic-depressive and medicated. |
| Unpredictable....... | Manic-depressive and off medication. |
Paradise
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WHAT'S GOING TO BECOME OF ME?
I don't often think this way, so when I do, it's a big deal. Here I am. Alone. For a long time now. Any semblance of normality long since past, having worn itself away. I have no one to huddle with in the dark night when fears of the big bad world threaten to overwhelm me. No one except myself, and my work, to comfort me. Do you ever feel this way? Awakening out of that incomprehensible dream in the middle of the night? If only I had someone faithful to write to, someone who would not break it off because I will get, sometimes, too weird. Write to me.
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"What's going to happen to me?" It's a question I dwell on from time to time in the middle of the night. "Why am I so different?"
I can imagine that there are a lot of people who fall into similar categories, people whose lives did not turn out the way they thought they would, if they thought of their futures at all (I never did), people who ended up in less than ideal circumstances after living a high or relatively well-off life, so that they end up asking themselves questions like "What's going to happen to me?"I can go for days or weeks, even a month, without saying a word to another living person, and never think an odd thought about it, never think myself strange for this behavior, because I exist among a network of psychic forces which appear to me as presences I contact. I carry on complex conversations that could never take place in what we call the real world. I document these conversations, and thus I am an artist, entertained by my own inventions that I do not always recognize as such, but often think I am possessed, or visited. Or maybe I am. I could create excuses, rationalizations, for why I am like I am today. I could say my situation is caused by: the physical pain I am in, which never abates but is only dulled into an ache by the medicine; the drugs I have taken, the drug life I used to lead; the paranoia-residue from having secured my financial future through illicit drug sales; Vietnam, and the subsequent Vietnam era politics. But these reasons would be at best convenient. But all someone would have to point out is, "Yes. But what about your childhood?" and that would defeat any rationalization I could come up with, so I can only say, "This is the way I am."
Take Jayne Mansfield, for example. She could have been one of Howard Stern's early interviewees, if he had been doing his show back then. At least in part as a result of studio revenge against her marriage, which it did not approve of, she sunk to a level where she ended up making a studio film about worldwide seedy night spots and kinky sex parlors. The studio even went so far as to highlight her name as a part of the title, thus associating her public image with this underworld, perhaps as retribution. The corporation can be cruel when you won't toe the line.
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Moments of Weakness
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PREARRANGEMENT
Before contacting me, read everything on my website.
It may save you a lot of disappointment later on. 
--from "Literary Lives" by Edward Sorel,
The Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 2001 (Buy the magazine and read the whole piece. It's great.) |
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Myself
birthday: August 9th gender: male, but I'm open to suggestions. parents: Joseph A. Jackson, Mary M. Kruth born in: Pittsburgh, PA grew up in: Pittsburgh, PA; Penn Hills, PA currently residence: Penn Hills, PA hair: gray (formerly brown, but now with a tinge of gold) eye: sometimes green, sometimes hazel height: 6' 1" weight: 180 body type/build: thin, but muscular (i.e., not wiry) appearance: I look young for my age and wise for my years. I have several appearances. Sometimes I look like a biker. Sometimes I look like a college professor. Sometimes I look like a mystic guru. Sometimes I look like an ordinary working stiff. These are disguises. Appearance is illusion. The real me is often locked up deep inside. But it can spring out at any moment, only to be more or less quickly hidden away again. This is the nature of appearance: it appears and disappears. Avoid superficiality. Look more deeply for the truth. occupation: writer income: non-existent educational level: formal--B.S. Psychology; informal--a lifetime of independent study emphasis of study: Psychology, Physics, Cosmology, Teleology, English, English Literature, Psychoanalysis, et al. ethnic background: Euro-American languages: English with minisule amounts of French, German, and Spanish, but willing to learn whatever you speak, if you have the patience to teach me (anything, not only language). religion: Zen Buddhism, if I must choose, but I believe in all religions to some extent, and in none of them fully, especially when they begin to proselytize or dogmatize. frequency of attending services: daily, in my bedroom, in meditation, for several hours. Never, in a socially organized way. spiritual beliefs: We are all one continuous being, divided only by illusion. past lives: Once, on acid, I experienced myself as a sixteenth century gendarme who was stabbed in the back by a bayonet and died. Purged of all flesh, my skeleton (which my spirit continued to inhabit) was hung in a building where medical students could study it, and where I continued to experience the pain of my death for years to come, every time someone twisted the skeleton sideways into the same positon I had been in when the bayonet was plunged into me. political inclination: far left of radical. political views/beliefs: If we could live without government, if we weren't all such assholes, I'd be all for it. financial views: save every penny you get and live off the interest only. financial situation: financially independent, so long as I don't spend too much money. sun sign: leo moon sign: I looked it up once, but I forgot it rising sign: ditto chinese sign: ya got me. # of children: none, thank God. Actually, it has nothing to do with God. I've been very (overly) careful. # of children desired: less than zero. in my family, I am known as: an asocial rebel. (It's not really true, the asocial part, but that's a complicated subject.) how you feel about pets: love them, but hate to have to take care of them. pets you own: four goldfish that I bought when my neighbor, who since moved away after he split with his girlfriend, decided that he wanted to set up the pond in my side yard between our houses with a pump and fountain so that we could sit outside beside it on hot summer nights and drink beer. (He drank the beer. I don't drink any more.) pets who own you: You mean besides the ghost of my dog? (The only soul I ever cried over when it passed--and there have been a lot of those souls over the years.) I haven't seen the spectre in a while now, but it still shows up every so often, looking for a scratch on the head or a gentle word, usually when I am half-asleep. pets you'd like to own: Oh, let's see. How about a Beauceron. I love dogs, especially the kind that reserve their loyalty for only one master. smoking habits: I don't smoke. I hate it. And I'm highly prejudiced against people who do. drinking habits: completely abstinent, and loving it, although I do miss the occasional beer sometimes. But unlike smokers, whom I have absolutely no tolerance for whatsoever, I more easily forgive drinkers their fault, as long as they retain their sensibilities and social conscience. marital status: divorced, or single depending upon whom you talk to. (There are still some die-hard religious zealots who believe that common law marriage is a sin against God.) favorite activities: writing, reading (but not so much any more; I'd rather watch films), surfing the net, cooking a beef roast with vegetables on a cold Sunday afternoon. favorite drink: It used to be orange juice, but any more, it's just plain water. favorite food: lobster tail. (Oh, yeah!) Or else, a cheese sandwich with mayo and raw onion. And pizza's not bad, either. favorite cuisine: Oh, I don't know. I like all food. Maybe Polynesian. favorite type of music: alternative or electronic, generally. But I like all music, even the mindless stuff like country or gospel. I especially like Mexican music, or TexMex, but I don't hear a lot of it here in the north. Some rap is okay, especially stuff like Slim Shady, by eminem. I like radical music and am generally turned off by the stuff that copies everybody else--unless it's satire. I love good satire. Weird Al. favorite musician: There are so many. Probably Pink Floyd, overall. ZZ Top ain't bad. Goldfrapp is great. K.D. Lang, Leo Kottke, Arlene Bishop, The Sex Pistols, Tom Waits, Thelonious Monk, Veruca Salt, Stravinsky. There are so many... favorite song: Again, so many. It changes every week. My theme song is probaby "Shine on, you Crazy Diamond," by Pink Floyd, with "Wish You Were Here" a close second. But songs like "Shadowboxer" or "Sullen Girl" by Fiona Apple are right up there. And too many others to list. favorite reading material: strange short stories or poetry favorite authors: Can Xue, Donald Barthelme, Richard Braughtigan, Kathy Acker favorite book: whatever one I'm reading at the time favorite magazine: I hate magazines. favorite tv show: South Park, Ally McBeal, Nova, Insomniac, Ozzy. favorite movie: Being There favorite actor: Ellen Barkin. (She's really hot.) I admire Sean Penn for his talent, but I probably like to watch others a whole lot more. favorite director: no doubt about it: Robert Redford. favorite comic book: I've lost touch with the comics, unfortunately. It used to be Mad magazine, but that was along time ago. favorite scent: I'll leave that one to your imagination. (Peach is a good second best.) favorite season: summer. Oh yes! I like it hot and lazy. favorite place: my home. favorite color: green, and orange. favorite hobby: I hate the whole concept of hobbies. If you're going to do something, dedicate yourself to it in a far more serious way. collections: Everything I own. We're touching on a sore spot here. This is a pathology with me. I have an obsession to collect, and a revelation that dictates that I get rid of everything I own and live in penniless submission to the will of universal nature. favorite quote: If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack.energy level: bipolar, which I hate--and love. Somewhere between a couch potato trapped in a state of deep ennui and a motivated slave of production when I'm focused on something I consider important. favorite places to go out to: Oh, do I really have to go? favorite sport (to play): Pool favorite sport (to watch): watching is for wussies. biggest flaw: thinking I'm paranoid when I'm not. biggest asset: ego fusion. what you'd want to have if stranded on a deserted island: a boat. what you tend to daydream most about: time travel. what bothers you most: stupidity. coolest toy ever: the computer. perfect escape: slip down through the ventilation system and tunnel out under the wall. self-description: http://jaijack.tripod.com descriptive adjectives: Artistic / Ponderous / Overly-sensitive, but self-effacing / Serious, and not / Shy, for lack of a better word--maybe, rather, quiet / Determined / Purposeful ideal place to live: somewhere in the south where it never gets cold. description of personal living space: organized, but seldom cleaned fashion sense: What's fashion? sense of humor: I love to laugh and make things up to laugh at. Unfortunately, most people don't get the joke. But, as a high school friend of mine used to say, "Humor is where you find it." party attitude and behavior: As Chauncey Gardener said, "I like to watch." worst fear: that there is no afterlife. biggest fantasy: I'm a corporate executive with an unlimited budget. biggest dream: Someone will love me some day. Or do I have this mixed up with the previous one? with free time on a day off, I most enjoy: doing what I do every other day. I love my life now. on-the-job attitude: no overtime, but otherwise obsessively loyal; these are remnants of a former life. I don't work at a job any more. Success. It's everything I've dreamed of. time sense: I'm never late. I'm always five to ten minutes early, and I don't own a watch. I have an intuitive sense of time. But I'm not really into time, man. Einstein proved that time is relative. pet peeves: sloppy fat people / people who block the aisle in a grocery store. sexual preference: yes turn-ons: petite women / women who understand me (another fantasy) / women who admire me for my intellect and my artistic genius--in a genuine way, and not as a form of flattery. turn-offs: loud, argumentative people who just cannot get along / women who use alcohol as an excuse to flirt (with other men--but if they do it with me, they'll do it with others too). type of relationship you are seeking: totally committed, otherwise why bother? You're headed somewhere, and if it's not with me, get on with it and stop wasting my time, and yours. willing to relocate: Yes, definitely, but only at your expense. I ain't got the funds to uproot my life. I'm well-entrenched.
My Partner
gender: female, although if she'd rather be the man, that's okay with me. appearance: important, at first, but of decreasing importance as the personality shines on through. intelligence: of low importance at first, but of increasing importance as the importance of appearance wears off. In other words, impress me with content, not form. age range: 18 to 60 (older if you look like Ruth Gordon), but the younger you are, the more likely you're not going to last because you haven't experienced enough life to tolerate my social deviance. location: anywhere, as long as you're willing to come here. hair: yes eyes: at least one body type: ideally, petite and/or thin, although curvaceous, even if a little bit overweight, has something to be said for it. Ultimately, self-image is far more important. languages: any, with at least a smattering of English. ethnicity: any. The more exotic, the better. Eskimo would be nice. Or Tibetan. religion: any, as long as you keep it to yourself. education: more is always better. Ideally, you will be better educated than I am. But I doubt it. I benefit immensely from others' educations. occupation: If you work for a corporation, it will benefit you not to have too good an opinion of it. If you think of your job as an unfortunate compromise you've had to make in order to earn enough money to survive and prosper, that's a good attitude. Otherwise, whomever you work for is okay, as long as you feel that your career and your profession is more important than your employer. income: several million a year would be nice, but it really doesn't matter. If you make no money at all, that's fine, as long as you don't want any of mine. I'm financially timid, very worried about which will give out first, my money or my life. marital status: any except married. But, listen: if you're living with a guy and looking to get out as soon as the first good prospect comes along, be honest with yourself, and me. What am I supposed to think you're going to do when you get tired of me? If you don't like the guy, leave him. If you do like him, commit to him and stop playing the waiting game. Get off the fence. Consider this: would you be willing to sign a pre-nup with me agreeing that we will never divorce, despite the circumstances? And women say that men are not committed. smoker: Absolutely not. drinker: If you can handle it. It's been my experience that most people can't, and the older they get, the worse they get. children: Okay, if you're capable of taking care of them. I'll be their buddy, but I won't be their father. I hate authority, even my own. wants children: Not with me you don't.
Our Relationship
perfect first date: We don't go anywhere. We sit and talk, and you do most of the talking. I don't mind. I like a woman who talks. It saves me the trouble. I like to talk when I have something to say, which can be pretty often sometimes. But I hate to talk when I feel pressured to do it. I prefer communing to communicating. Words are overrated. My ideal woman will always carry the social ball and act as a buffer for me in social situations. Sorry, but that's the way I am. (Of course, I'm not looking for an ideal woman, or an ideal anything. See below. Whatever you are is probably all right with me.) what you expect on a first date Nothing. I try never to expect anything, from anyone. The good things that I then get are always welcome and I am never disappointed. perfect subsequent date: More of the same. If you don't start it, I won't finish it. ideal relationship: Let me live in peace. It's taken me a long time to come to the conclusion that I am actually able to do it. Don't set out now to ruin my life. what you've learned from past relationships: People expect too much of their mates. They have this unrealistic ideal that their significant other should satisfy all their needs because they can't fathom the truth that all needs are satisfied within the self. Thus, couples become increasingly codependent and begin unconsciously to hate each other for it. Two people can come together as one soul, but not as one body or one mind. Every person is an individual in this world of illusion we live in. We can break the illusion, but we can never eliminate the spell that physical existence holds over us that dictates that we are individual entities. So let's not pretend that we can by acting as if another can give us what we are not willing to find within ourselves. And yet, when we find it within, we realize the other is already there. description of ideal match: There are no ideal matches. If you're waiting for the perfect mate, you're going to wait for the rest of your life and be ultimately disappointed. There are only compromises (at worst) and acceptance (at best) in any "perfect" relationship. |
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JUST ORDINARY THINGS
I don't want to go dancing. I don't want to go on long romantic walks, or sea cruises, or... I don't even, necessarily, want to cuddle by a cozy fire, or do any stereotypical activity. I just want to co-exist, doing ordinary things, like preparing dinner together, washing dishes, or sitting watching television. Romance is overly labeled as specific things that women want to think are emblematic. I'm too old to go running around looking for whims. I want to stay at home and cohabitate.
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Let It Happen |
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I DON'T KNOW YOU DON'T KNOW
I doubt that you could tell me anything about myself that I don't already know. (Not that there aren't things I don't know about myself, but that what I do not know, most others don't know either.) I have been very deep into my psyche, there are few surprises there, those that remain are not about to be released through typical social interaction, and you are not likely to engage me any more intimately than that. (But, oh, how I wish someone out there would set themselves to the task of proving me wrong.)
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Intimate Avoidance
I tell you my secrets, but I lie about my past.
-Tom Waits, "Tango Till They're Sore" |
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FAIR WARNING
I am not normal. I do not react in the way that ordinary men react when women will expect certain specific social responses. I do not think the way ordinary men (or women) think. I am different (I think.) When folks want me to be the same, I bristle. Sameness is too much like everything else, all over the place, resistant to any change that might be beneficial. If you want everything to remain the same, I'm not the one for you.
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"Conversation with a Woman"
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SO THAT YOU KNOW
I have a lot of faults: I can't afford to give presents, I need every penny I have to assure my future, I can't work (or I won't, under these social conditions), I have a back problem, which is intermittent, I have a minor heart problem (if any heart problem can be called minor), which forces me to be exactly perfect in the way I conduct my life, which is probably a good thing, because I did not conduct my life so well when I was younger, I experience a certain anxiety in social situations (which over the years, via a determined program of psychological conditioning, I have mostly overcome, but a lot of that success may be simple avoidance of the situations that will precipitate the problem, when it will escalate the longer I am immersed in a callous society which will not attend to the mental well-being of all of its citizens--that's far more than I intended to get into on that subject here), I recognize the way in which women blackmail men (and men too, or in different ways, blackmail women) with social expectations such as wanting to receive such things as diamonds and jewelry, Valentines, flowers (I know they're feminine psycho-symbols), candy ("you're so sweet"), presents generally, as tokens of affection, and I recognize how men will respond, compliantly, in order to mask a self-suspicion that it is true that they do not feel so much the affection their partners want them to feel, and so they will allow themselves to be blackmailed into certain social practices they think are stupid. I don't think, like other men, that they are so stupid; I think they are deceitful. Isn't it better to bestow genuine affection instead? I have a lot of "faults," some of which are listed here, but one of those faults is not that I am unable to bestow affection. If I have a fault in this regard it is that I tend to bestow too much.
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I don't have a lot of money, just enough, if I am careful. I don't have money to go out a lot, which is all right. It's a karmic fact that "fate" has handed me, because I don't want, so much, to go out any more, I've been out. I used to go out a lot. Going out had been my essence. Now I want to stay at home, maybe to a fault. Anyway, I don't have money, to spend, on non-necessities.
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Relationships begin, and end. Women come and go. I have |
Change
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no more to follow
altho i may intersperse additions the next (more or less) logical continuation of this thread of thought is therapy |
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[click the footnote number to return to that respective point in the text.]
1.
This is exactly the kind of situation/event that in the past would have pissed me off, that someone would ask if I did something that I myself know I never would have done. But there is no hint of that kind of anger here, either because I have matured to the point where this kind of incident is no longer offensive to me, or, more likely, because there is no real threat here in the first place. Anger is an indication of past hurt, repressed. When I get irritated (at best) when people assume bad things about me, it is because, in a certain sense, perhaps only psychologically and not actual real-world fact, they are true. There is no hint of any kind of truth here, and so I feel no need to defend myself, either now, nor in the past when Mom told/asked me this. But I do go into a lot of detail explaining this, so maybe this is all one big rationalization. Getting to the "truth" is so confusing.
2. Marcia/Eileen, out front. She taps me on the shoulder, or she doesn't, but I become aware that she is there, and I turn, having been preoccupied at rebuilding the wall that has collapsed, using interlocking landscaping blocks. At first, (I think) it is S who has come up from behind (thus my conclusion that she is M in disguise), but it turns out to be E. She snuggles up next to me and I put my arm around her shoulders as we walk toward the driveway where her car (red wagon) sits. I'd forgotten how small she is. My arm (my personality?) encompasses her. 3. Dale/CaroleG/a young Katherine Ross, on a sidewalk leading to a street, as if it is some kind of a park. She is either saying goodbye to or greeting her parents, who are in a car, facing them with her head over her shoulder looking toward me. She wants to run away with me, but can't, or she wants to go home with them, but can't, or both, so that she is stuck between us. This is our transference? I am a father-object that she is trying to use to replace her father? That seems right. Yesterday, she just happened to come out into the yard when I was working there, again. I wonder if she does it on purpose, hoping I will say more to her than the ritual greeting we have developed. I always wait for her to speak first, which I prompt by looking at her, after she looks at me: |
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