I had oh boy did I wholly and utterly and sensually have that sweet, melt-in-your-mouth white chocolate and oh did it so wholly hit every spot I needed and wanted it to hit at that time! Oh, boy, did it make my heart knock at my sternum! But my tastes have changed: now I don’t need anything, and I want something less processed, something not quite as sweet, something that doesn’t melt too quickly. If it melts in your mouth and it’s sweet, it’s too easy to eat and will make you fat, soft, lethargic. Otherwise, you’re forced to find the goodness, derive, discern the goodness from a natural mess of true impressions. You’ll naturally come to appreciate even bitterness and rigidity—your sensation of bitterness will give way to richness, depth, complexity; your sense of crunchiness should need no transformation. Instead of calling it bitter, the refined palate calls it chocolaty, and instead of calling it rigid or hard, the refined palate calls it al dente all’inizio, nutriente e dopo. Just authentically chocolaty—no positive or negative connotation there, and so it is with people. No name is inherently positive or negative in connotation; no person is inherently positive or negative. The best you can be is honest in action at every possible moment, and the best chocolate is 85+% chocolaty.
Archive for truth
The 10:47 train out of Rowayton huzzed past yuppie towns and small cities, sleepy and otherwise, in the crisp morning. On it was a sparsely bearded, comfortably caffeinated Wilson—hands clasped; feet curled under the seat; torso bent forward, nature calling from the front; the idyllic Redhead’s faintly fragrant hair, oh to have that again the idea of having that again made him boing, to have the olfactions—by his memory a flowery musk kissed by brine and a whiff of leather—again oh yes oh that boinged the man’s boinger like the bright jangles of the conductor’s keys. Anxiety waxed—Mullaly’s last performance, that double-orchiectomizing and admittedly incisive performance the eclipser. With the keys, the leather seat, the hissing and clicking of the train’s brakes, the boing, he stayed happy like twenty-five years ago when he knew Nana and Poppy’s warm, orange-tiled, wooden-panel-walled sunroom—furnished with a swiveling, orange leather chair, the inspirer of a unique and recurrent olfactory dream; the room welcomed the whish-whoosh of the dishwasher through wall-spanning inner windows and, from outside, a salty breeze bearing news of just-washed linens—he was elated like when he knew, in real time, these combined with the whole impression made by Nana’s shuffling gait, Poppy’s colorful library—seat of his passion, his favorite the bible—and their shiny metallic slot machine with red, blue, and green trim, revolving cherries and fez-clad monkeys playing chest-mounted bass drums, and on one side a lever that could prompt a pleasing chih-ih-ing and award coins whether the monkeys aligned or not.
“Welcome to One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth Street. Next stop: Grand Central.”
Wilson thought about getting off here to shorten his walk to the drop, but decided downtown would be better for now and, anyway, to get there nine hours early would be foolery. Still holding his water, he suffered another ten minutes en route.
TRAIN STOPPED, DOORS PNEUMATICALLY OPENED
“This is our last stop. Thank you for choosing Metro North!”
Wilson got off the train, pissed in the nearest restroom and took in the beauties of the station since he had the time. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads; there was marble, iron, and brass; there were clocks and stores, booths and whores; people relating—playing games; a young German shepherd yawning, head jerking up and down a bit at the end, tips of his ears touching as his paws lightly clipped and clapped along the marble floor; everything a moving picture, combinations of moving pictures everywhere—entering and exiting, some passing along. Everything was coming, going, bygone. Nothing requited Wilson’s attention.
He finally left the station, and found himself fretting; strangely, it was around his marriage. He was worried that perhaps he wouldn’t be the one to end it, or that it would never end because neither he nor Molly would find a better alternative. He kept thinking about that bird-in-hand expression–did it apply to him? Was it better to hang his hat now since he seemed to have something of a guarantee in Molly, or should he take his chances on middle-aged-divorcee status? There was nothing horrible about the match, he thought; it had become tepid where it was once fiery, that’s all. He still respected her on some personal level, and had to concede she looked least reproachable for being tens of pounds heavy. Familiarity, though, had begotten the death of constant ardor, but sometimes he could still see the girl he couldn’t stay soft around—the girl frustratingly fine, insofar as she said no to his advances. She hadn’t said yes in years, and not for too few trials; he just kept insufficiently aware of changes in her preferences, and didn’t know how to recover that awareness—where to start looking; he could ask, true, but he learned in his younger years that verbal interview was not, at least then, the way to win her wetness; it always seemed up to luck. So aimless his thinking went for a while as he dazedly walked up, down and across the city; his net path just had to be northeast.
“Are you Jimbo?” Asked a smoky voice somewhere in the sixties on the east side of Lexington.
“No.” Wilson said plainly.
“You look and walk like Jimbo. Come here a minute. I want to tell you a story.”
The voice belonged to a disheveled but subtly handsome older man, probably fifty-something, but by appearance sixty-something. The street has a way of accelerating lives. He had shaggy grey hair about fourteen inches long; thick, black eyebrows; a respectably full but tobacco-stained beard, and respectably straight but tobacco-stained teeth. Wilson followed him through the alleyway and they stopped at a concrete landing five, eight-inch-high-steps-up from the ground.
The man successfully put his blackened hand out for Wilson to shake.
“I’m Feeyohder. I like to tell what I know. Here’s something. There was a man, overwhelmed by the sad stagnation of his life. He did things, sure, but got nowhere. He worked in an office; some would call him a suit. He lived in Connecticut.”
“One day, he realized that the easiest way to change things was to radically change himself. Know what I mean?”
“Not specifically, but yes.
“So, what he did was…I always have trouble getting this part out when I’m hungry…”
Wilson thought for a minute. Normally, he’d have just walked away, but this Feeyohder had him compelled. Maybe this investment would prove worthwhile.
“Okay. Here’s twenty.”
“Not what I meant, boy! Let’s have a meal.”
They stopped at a café and sat down.
They silently sat for about ten minutes, waiting for the food to arrive. Wilson studied Feeyohder’s face furtively; he was envious of all the man’s structural features, but at the same time couldn’t resent him for it. There was no eye contact during this time, during which Feeyohder seemed out-of-body.
“Here’s your egg sandwich, handsome! And here’s your oatmeal, sir.”
They ate for a bit, and then the older man continued.
“So, he had to change himself to move forward. No hobbies, no special skills, not a fuckin chance of making a unique, significant, lasting impression on paper. He could write, though, not so well at first but he wrote and wrote and wrote and read and read and read and he found moments. And assembled them best he could and submitted them.”
“What did he write about?”
“He had flashbacks to his childhood—mostly pleasant, vivid flashbacks. He became addicted to these visions and smells and sounds and associations, and thought that the more he wrote, the more he’d remember. It didn’t work that way. Once he ran out of childhood memories and combinations thereof, he presumed his creativity dried up. So he sat in his office, depressed again, doing nothing, until finally he got fired.”
“What happened next?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“That’s what people say.”
“That guy is dead, I’m in his body. My only regret is that I should have quit first, and then started writing—living—in earnest. This life is an artist’s dream. I see a lot. I do a lot. Any timidity I have about approaching people is offset by the chance we’ll change each other. Just the other day, I tried the same thing that worked on you with some pastel-wearing, bellied gentleman and his response impressed me much.”
“What did he say?”
“All I remember is impressing upon him and then being impressed upon; the words were only a small part of a great whole, ineffably great.”
“Can I see some of your writing?”
“We’re writing a story and storing our memoirs. What’s precious about this writing is we can’t fully appreciate its reach; I can’t know how it ramifies you, and you then the world, but I’m sure it does, and you do! The only thusness is that there is no eternal thusness; everything’s coming and going, becoming something new all the time.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
Wilson couldn’t reply.
“Good; you keep thinking. You can pick up the check next time, friend, but not here. Our money isn’t accepted here. They appreciate our work.”
“Could you write your thesis down for me?”
“I did. You’re on the level, and I know what that looks like. Thank you for everything; you can’t know how much you’ve done for me. So long, Jimbo!”
“But what have I done for y…”
Feeyohder walked out and stormed jollily uptown.
Excerpted from the same novella as “His Pragm’ic Way.” Mullally is the thinker in that piece.
You want all the jabs you can get. In your mind they reinforce the idea that I’m evil and you’re perfectly innocent.
I’ll devastate you with the truth–as I see it now and will always see it–until you’re as done as I am.
The truth is that whether you choose to self-examine or not, you were the first, worst, and most consistent sociopath in this relationship.
Exhibits A-Y (one more and we’d have had an alphabet’s worth of evidence!):
You hid at least three mustache rides from me and falsely portrayed yourself as a rape victim (twice!) to keep this ever-fucked-up relationship going and control the way you were perceived.
Ask Aidan, that best friend of mine you shamelessly, desperately, disgustingly assaulted with your eyes and threw yourself at in my presence and behind my back–he gave you an 8.5 on a 10 point scale for sociopathy, and he thinks you’re pathetic, “desperate enough to make anything work,” manipulative, narcissistic, and always good for inspiring a hearty, derisive laugh. I’d say he’s got the nail hit on the head about 75% of the time with that description.
Ask Brian, who you dubbed more attractive than me in a public setting.
Finally, ask skinny-fat Greg from California; skinny-fat, bitch-titted, sociopathic Rob; Mountain-Man Dan, your opportunistic white knight in underwhelming armor; poor, little, puny DM, pre-diabetic Ashton, the abusive, scrawny Chris W; poor, little, puny and probably homosexual Sol; fat Bill, Tim the Borderline Autistic, approximately seven hipster app developers in Portland, and Felix, from whom I would have sought lessons on breaking up if you had it your way–only a few of the innumerable sexual vacations you toyed with embarking on or actually embarked on while we were together. Maybe you were just insecure and trying to make me jealous. That, of course, would vindicate you, right? Vindicate your getting sliced, sluiced, stuffed, schtooped, slammed, fucked, made-love-to, cunnilingualized* real good at every opportunity. Here’s a secret: as long as you want it, as long as your fickle, BV-afflicted thoroughfare of a pussy craves novelty, anything unfamiliar will serve you right, so don’t worry about finding a sexual match. Everyone who’s capable of copulation–even if his erectile prowess is lacking or sporadic; even if his hands are useless; even if he’s an atrocious kisser–is a potential match for you!
What’s more: if you’re ever desperate for friends, you know you’re always a hit with half-chubbed heterosexual males! Avert your eyes to the crotch–I know you like to and it never lies.
I hope that’s comforting to you at this difficult time. You’ll find your next “monogamistic” arrangement very soon, I’m sure. Perhaps you won’t get 7.5+ inches of ready and athletic phallusticity out of it, but you’ll synthesize happiness from your deferent, abjectly cuckoldable and immasculine husband–modelled after Daddy Len and me circa late 2010 and early 2011, before I grew a sufficient pair to confront you on any of your endless bullshit–and your lifetime of messy, dramatic affairs. You’ll find someone who has potential but no support network, habits or interests that encourage testicular descent, you’ll run him into the ground, and then you’ll find ways to make him feel like he’s wronged you.
My conscience, for one, is still sterling.
P.S. You can tell mom and dad they’ve succeeded in creating a spineless-monster-cunt-milquetoast in their own combined likeness, and that I totally would have slammed the shit out of the former’s cooch 30-40 years ago.
*(I was no competition for Rob on that, as I couldn’t bring myself to grow something comparable to that misshapen strip of shit on his upper lip. I’m so very sorry I didn’t get better acquainted with your clam, the cutting edge of vaginal epidemiology, while we were together.)
It’s funny when a guy disappears from a certain kind of woman’s mind for a while and then as soon as she’s got relationship issues she’s happy to dump them on him. She’s good at strategic manipulation in relationships; she’ll be able to explain the absence away and make him feel like he’s the most important guy in her life, because for that moment, he really is. However, she doesn’t see him that way. She sees him as a stepping stone to understanding and manipulating whoever’s getting her properly. She sees him as a means of validating her hysteria, desperation, and if she’s lucky, attractiveness.
If he’s the right guy for the job, he’ll say “I understand what you’re going through and I would be acting differently if I were him—he’s wrong, you’re right.” Furthermore, there’ll be some sign that he’s interested in her sexually, but not just sexually. He’s willing to share his most precious resource with her—his time—when it’s most costly to do so. He thinks he’s making an investment in the future, and he might be. If she’s mildly attracted to him, she might be able to convince herself that something romantic can happen between them, something passionate. But what’ll always be absent is respect, because while they don’t always seem it, women are rational, and no one can really respect a man who carries someone else’s emotional burdens when he could be developing himself into the man he wants to be and women want to be with independently of their past or current romantic experience.
Even if they end up knocking boots immediately, she’ll regret it and be in an even tougher spot with her boyfriend. Suppose the sex with her supportive friend isn’t a slam dunk the first time—she’ll really regret it and run back to her boyfriend because let’s face it: if the sex AND the relationship were bad, she’d just leave. Then friendy will be shit out of luck because she already had no respect for him as a man and now she doesn’t think of him as one at all. He’s effectively her gay buddy without the panache that usually goes along with it. Also, do you think she’d support him if he were having trouble? Hell no! She’d be too busy trying to maintain relations with the quality mate she already has.
Now let’s suppose the sex goes really well. Then she’ll still recognize that she’s in a relationship and have trouble ending it! She doesn’t want to look like the bad guy in the end and she also doesn’t want to lie to her boyfriend. So, her emotional attachment to him will drive her to sympathy and she’ll think of him as a victim who deserves her love and whose love she doesn’t deserve, so now her mission is to earn back the right to be loved. Will she tell him? Not directly. Will she come back to you, assuming you’re her trusty doormat friend with superior sexual prowess? Yeah, you might get it on a few more times. But what will come of it in the end? You’ll look like a sociopath to her because the act was sociopathic and she doesn’t want to self-examine, and she’s now conditioned to play nice with her boyfriend and look for guys who can give it to her like a man. She’ll want a blank slate because what happened between the two of you shouldn’t have. Y’all won’t have that, because you started as friends and started fucking while she was with someone else, and then you’ll just be the guy who made her realize that her relationship is fucked up and destined to be abusive but also that she wants to stay long enough to find something better, something that saves her from the treatment she gets after she tells her boyfriend something happened without explicitly telling him.
She might call you again. If you’re smart, you’ll raise your middle finger to the phone and push that toxic cunt out of your mind for good.