Crazy Wisdom...
So I'm sitting here in my glorious apartment, sun streaming in multiple windows of generous size, drenching my feet, thinking, "I think people are working pretty hard today." Everyone I've emailed has really wanted to write back, but alas, they are stuck in the mire of the workaday day. Doing it for the Man. Doing it doggie-style.
Out with old friends the other night I was recounting a couple of disgusting jokes/scenarios ie. The Cleaveland Steamer, not to be confused with the Cincinnati Steamer and the good old fashioned Harry Houdini. I shall not bore with the descriptions of any or all of these. If at all curious, all definitions can be found @ www.urbandictionary.com. Anyway, I was struck, after telling these stories to these kind and sweet people that I will probably never find love again. Why? Because I'm too disgusting.
I'm not a bad looking package; some have accused me of being a rather long drink of water. I think I take care of myself. I don't dress to impress anybody, though sometimes I, admittedly, impress myself. I do have an inherent sense of not wearing anything that will make my stick out like a sore thumb, this includes, but is not limited to plunging necklines and barely snatch covering skirts, or worse, skorts (skirt in the front, shorts in the rear). Good God! I think I don't wear or display peacockity because I have a higher than average set of lungs, and this is not metaphor to alluding to massive jugs. Not huge in that department, though my mother is Head of Faculty in the Department of Mammorial Glands. 4'11" with a DD cup, she resembles the Asian version of the Chicken Lady. I *love* her. What I am talking about is I actually have a decent lung capacity, a strengthened diaphragm (let's keep it clean, for fuck's sake), and a rather large, resonating cranium. What this causes is 160 decibels of sound. 130 is the pain threshold. Yeah. So when you couple the above, with an inherent ability for comedy, often finding myself the center of attention, not needing it, just happening to be there, well... then... suffice it to say necks crane, disapproving looks ensue and often people change seats with a look of disgust on their faces. The reason I have a lot of guy friends is because they actually like this side of me. Of course I wouldn't touch them with a 10' pole, and who knows if they'd want me anyway. My whole point here is maybe I'm too disgusting to be with.
Last night I ran into my good friend Tyrone, who was out with his friend Chris. Chris is 26, with a girlfriend, but he looks. Not buying anything, just window shopping. Anyway, I was talking about the potential of not ever finding anyone again and he says, "Well, if you took that energy you have towards groups of people and just channel that towards the guy and only the guy, not directing it to the entire room, you'd be fine. Also, you shouldn't tell those jokes."
So I said, "Really? Chris, you can go fuck yourself."
I'm 36 today. I'm 36 and I'm not going to moderate my behaviour just so I *might* find love again. That's fucking bullshit. One day there will be an extraordinary creature, whom I'm absolutely thrilled and proud to be with and in turn he will be thrilled and proud to be with me, but until that day I am NOT ever going to be anything that I am not. This includes "toning it down". Fuck that and fuck him for even suggesting it. Who knows what his girlfriend's tempering right now.
While talking to my mother the other day, she asked if I was eating. I told I was. There is this quaint Chinese expression of "Food has no taste when eaten alone". Often true, but yesterday I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and Lipton's Chicken Noodle Soup. That was pretty tasty. I'd taken to reading nothing while I'd eat a meal, thinking the meal might taste better if I didn't have one of my senses distracted. I don't have cable and my television isn't hooked up properly unless it's moved into the living room for "Special Movie Night". But then I decided there are so many sweet, "little", totally digestible snippets/segments in Harper's magazine and, hell, I've got so many magazines that are vying for my attention right now and so little attention span for any of them during downtime. So, yesterday I found myself kind of looking forward to a little snippet.
Tom Robbins, who brought us Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, wrote a piece in September 2004's issue of said Harper's, called In Defiance of Gravity. At the start he was prepared to do a header and end his life, his very good life, because of something he read. It was an excerpt from Robert Stone's ironically named, "Fun With Problems". Pretty dire stuff. Nice writing. Really takes the reader through some harrowing hoops of emblazened morose suffering. Addiction is the worst for me. It is reason #1 why I can't sit through Requiem for a Dream. Too hard, too taxing for my little self. I want to save people and I can't save them. The story can be found @
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/content/?020715fi_fiction
Robbins had written about choosing myrth over the shit that can occupy our general existence. There are some people that are just gifted in that realm. Apparently the Tibetans call it "crazy wisdom". Yes, we can continue on and on and just get wrapped up in the masterbatory reflex of martyrdom, claiming "nothing's wrong" and passive/aggressively taking it out on our best friends, or we can just choose the path of knowing, truly knowing, and this is even if we don't believe it at all, that the circumstances we find ourselves in now are not going to be the circumstances we will find ourselves in tomorrow. Things will alter slightly. Things change constantly. If we allow the crap of our lives that sometimes permeates to control us, that's when we have the problem. Choose to make light of it. I know I've written about the fucking sad clown episode before, but I think there's merit here.
Ack took me out for the old girl's birthday dinner tonight. Though it was my birthday he was upset because things didn't go his way. The place was too "fancy" (which it wasn't), the service was poor (which it was), it was too expensive, blah, blah, blah. In short, he had a very bad time. In the end I had to force myself not to get sucked into his petulant and moody behaviour, a quality that always drove me mad during our marriage, but something I just learned to accept about him.
We have choices every moment of every day. We could choose to be upset over something, or we could choose to find some merit in that same thing. When we fuck up we've just been taught a lesson, so if that same or similar situation comes at us again, we'll be a little more prepared for it the next time. That's wisdom. Wisdom comes from experience. Nothing but shit comes from expectations. Expect nothing. My boss and I were having a discussion on this topic, well, a similar topic about whether two people were meant to be together forever. He told me I should learn to lower my expectations. I told him, "Dude, the last person I had sex with looked like E.T. naked. Consider my expectations lowered."
I don't know. I will eventually find love again. In the interim I will be grateful to have the generous love of my 15-year-old cat that offers his face, his ears, his paws, his chest, the top of his head for smooching and occasionally (oh, joy!) his ass to me. I will continue to be delighted in the marriage proposals I get from unsuitable characters (Yes, this happens often). I will keep my candlelight vigil, on the lookout for Him, but secretly know he'll come when I've completely abandoned hope for anyone to ever love me again... properly. In the meantime I will continue to have ruckus good times with the good people that find their way along my path, continue to love and nurture the creatures I call friends and, mostly, do the job I was meant to do down here:
Just love 'em all.
Out with old friends the other night I was recounting a couple of disgusting jokes/scenarios ie. The Cleaveland Steamer, not to be confused with the Cincinnati Steamer and the good old fashioned Harry Houdini. I shall not bore with the descriptions of any or all of these. If at all curious, all definitions can be found @ www.urbandictionary.com. Anyway, I was struck, after telling these stories to these kind and sweet people that I will probably never find love again. Why? Because I'm too disgusting.
I'm not a bad looking package; some have accused me of being a rather long drink of water. I think I take care of myself. I don't dress to impress anybody, though sometimes I, admittedly, impress myself. I do have an inherent sense of not wearing anything that will make my stick out like a sore thumb, this includes, but is not limited to plunging necklines and barely snatch covering skirts, or worse, skorts (skirt in the front, shorts in the rear). Good God! I think I don't wear or display peacockity because I have a higher than average set of lungs, and this is not metaphor to alluding to massive jugs. Not huge in that department, though my mother is Head of Faculty in the Department of Mammorial Glands. 4'11" with a DD cup, she resembles the Asian version of the Chicken Lady. I *love* her. What I am talking about is I actually have a decent lung capacity, a strengthened diaphragm (let's keep it clean, for fuck's sake), and a rather large, resonating cranium. What this causes is 160 decibels of sound. 130 is the pain threshold. Yeah. So when you couple the above, with an inherent ability for comedy, often finding myself the center of attention, not needing it, just happening to be there, well... then... suffice it to say necks crane, disapproving looks ensue and often people change seats with a look of disgust on their faces. The reason I have a lot of guy friends is because they actually like this side of me. Of course I wouldn't touch them with a 10' pole, and who knows if they'd want me anyway. My whole point here is maybe I'm too disgusting to be with.
Last night I ran into my good friend Tyrone, who was out with his friend Chris. Chris is 26, with a girlfriend, but he looks. Not buying anything, just window shopping. Anyway, I was talking about the potential of not ever finding anyone again and he says, "Well, if you took that energy you have towards groups of people and just channel that towards the guy and only the guy, not directing it to the entire room, you'd be fine. Also, you shouldn't tell those jokes."
So I said, "Really? Chris, you can go fuck yourself."
I'm 36 today. I'm 36 and I'm not going to moderate my behaviour just so I *might* find love again. That's fucking bullshit. One day there will be an extraordinary creature, whom I'm absolutely thrilled and proud to be with and in turn he will be thrilled and proud to be with me, but until that day I am NOT ever going to be anything that I am not. This includes "toning it down". Fuck that and fuck him for even suggesting it. Who knows what his girlfriend's tempering right now.
While talking to my mother the other day, she asked if I was eating. I told I was. There is this quaint Chinese expression of "Food has no taste when eaten alone". Often true, but yesterday I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and Lipton's Chicken Noodle Soup. That was pretty tasty. I'd taken to reading nothing while I'd eat a meal, thinking the meal might taste better if I didn't have one of my senses distracted. I don't have cable and my television isn't hooked up properly unless it's moved into the living room for "Special Movie Night". But then I decided there are so many sweet, "little", totally digestible snippets/segments in Harper's magazine and, hell, I've got so many magazines that are vying for my attention right now and so little attention span for any of them during downtime. So, yesterday I found myself kind of looking forward to a little snippet.
Tom Robbins, who brought us Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, wrote a piece in September 2004's issue of said Harper's, called In Defiance of Gravity. At the start he was prepared to do a header and end his life, his very good life, because of something he read. It was an excerpt from Robert Stone's ironically named, "Fun With Problems". Pretty dire stuff. Nice writing. Really takes the reader through some harrowing hoops of emblazened morose suffering. Addiction is the worst for me. It is reason #1 why I can't sit through Requiem for a Dream. Too hard, too taxing for my little self. I want to save people and I can't save them. The story can be found @
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/content/?020715fi_fiction
Robbins had written about choosing myrth over the shit that can occupy our general existence. There are some people that are just gifted in that realm. Apparently the Tibetans call it "crazy wisdom". Yes, we can continue on and on and just get wrapped up in the masterbatory reflex of martyrdom, claiming "nothing's wrong" and passive/aggressively taking it out on our best friends, or we can just choose the path of knowing, truly knowing, and this is even if we don't believe it at all, that the circumstances we find ourselves in now are not going to be the circumstances we will find ourselves in tomorrow. Things will alter slightly. Things change constantly. If we allow the crap of our lives that sometimes permeates to control us, that's when we have the problem. Choose to make light of it. I know I've written about the fucking sad clown episode before, but I think there's merit here.
Ack took me out for the old girl's birthday dinner tonight. Though it was my birthday he was upset because things didn't go his way. The place was too "fancy" (which it wasn't), the service was poor (which it was), it was too expensive, blah, blah, blah. In short, he had a very bad time. In the end I had to force myself not to get sucked into his petulant and moody behaviour, a quality that always drove me mad during our marriage, but something I just learned to accept about him.
We have choices every moment of every day. We could choose to be upset over something, or we could choose to find some merit in that same thing. When we fuck up we've just been taught a lesson, so if that same or similar situation comes at us again, we'll be a little more prepared for it the next time. That's wisdom. Wisdom comes from experience. Nothing but shit comes from expectations. Expect nothing. My boss and I were having a discussion on this topic, well, a similar topic about whether two people were meant to be together forever. He told me I should learn to lower my expectations. I told him, "Dude, the last person I had sex with looked like E.T. naked. Consider my expectations lowered."
I don't know. I will eventually find love again. In the interim I will be grateful to have the generous love of my 15-year-old cat that offers his face, his ears, his paws, his chest, the top of his head for smooching and occasionally (oh, joy!) his ass to me. I will continue to be delighted in the marriage proposals I get from unsuitable characters (Yes, this happens often). I will keep my candlelight vigil, on the lookout for Him, but secretly know he'll come when I've completely abandoned hope for anyone to ever love me again... properly. In the meantime I will continue to have ruckus good times with the good people that find their way along my path, continue to love and nurture the creatures I call friends and, mostly, do the job I was meant to do down here:
Just love 'em all.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
1:34 a.m.
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