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dysfunctionalwomansdigest

Sanity is overrated!

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illusions

“She”

she creates men in her mind

she creates relationships in her head

hoping they will lead to her heart

and somehow become real

because people are seldom

as wonderful as she wishes they were

and never as loving and caring as she desires

and it is just too lonely to

be alone in this world…

Morbid Reflections

I heard his voice

And from inside

I felt him.

My senses awakened

and my focus rebelled…

He is approaching and

in spite of myself,

I surrender.

I writhe and struggle

as I battle to retain

what is rightfully mine.

There was a time

when no struggle existed

And I surrendered without

hesitation.

I allowed him to define me

To determine my value

I gave myself to him, without restraint and

I thought that he made me desirable

and sought-after;

I thought that he

enabled me

To be fiery and fierce

And I was…

for a time

Until he moved on

To someone else.

And I was left

to pick-up the pieces

And rebuild myself,

one fragment at a time.

I heard his voice and

then, I felt him…

My senses awakened and

My focus rebelled;

He is approaching

and in spite of myself

I do not surrender.

 

The Tangent

It’s so easy for me to go off on a tangent; it is in my nature to overdo everything that captures my attention.  This state of mind will prevail until I hit saturation or until I discover some flaw, or some disappointing detail about my current obsession.  Until that time, however, forget about it!  If you are anywhere close to my latitude and longitude, you are going to get an ear-full, or in this case, an eye-full.  I want to compare it to the revolutions of a hamster wheel but these tangents go somewhere; I consume the object of my affections until I have learned anything and everything about my subject.  This is not a futile undertaking and I am known to log some pretty impressive mileage!

Take for example the time that I became enamored with Oscar Wilde (truthfully, I still love him!).  Everything that entered into my little world was sifted through the sieve of Wildean philosophy.  You see, Oscar had a keen perspective on the laughably serious condition of humanity: he knew that we could never be what we wanted others to think that we were.  That insight, in and of itself, is an irony because in the attempt to fool others with our fictitious persona, the only one being fooled is ourselves.  Oscar knew that people rarely revealed their flaws and that fact alone was their greatest character deficiency.  At the same time, Wilde knew what it was like to be different and to embrace his unique characteristics by embracing them through his art and he prudently hid those which he knew society would never accept (his homosexuality).  The Portrait of Dorian Gray was a masterpiece of psychological insight into the temptations of life that keep us on edge, and therefore make us feel more alive, and at the same time slowly erode our innocence and purity which are the very things that make us truly beautiful.  Most would never dare to engage in the activities that our fantasy worlds encompass and for those who do, the consequences will reveal themselves in time.  There are no exceptions.

Another obsession I have saturated myself with is that of D.H. Lawrence.  I had to know everything about him.  What an inconspicuous-looking man to embody such a sensuous and passionately erotic nature!  I wanted to know what his life was like and how a young man from a relatively poor working class family became such a courageous and skillful narrator of erotica during the last breaths of the Victorian Era.  He obviously knew women and this knowledge appears to have been an instinctual, almost innate, frame of reference.  When reading Lawrence, I can feel my heart pounding and my hands shaking…I tingle in my girlie parts as he sets the stage for sex; the spark that is ignited from the combination of literary licentiousness and my imagination knows no bounds!  I love that Lawrence!

Lately, I have become enamored with Charles Bukowski (surprise, surprise!).  I can’t seem to get enough of his raw and edgy prose.  Bukowski challenges me to remove my high-heeled slippers and to take a walk across the path strewn with broken glass and to feel the pain and its consequent relief that defines so much of the human experience.  The pretensions of culture were a slow-death to Bukowski’s art and the temptation to suffocate pure and uncensored humanity with the addition of literary  mechanics and proper grammar were an insult.  Reading Buk, I experience the swirling and ceaseless meanderings of a littered mind that exists within the ugliness of the human experience.  And in its beauty.  Despite Bukowski’s vulgar and crass language (women are “cunts” and men are “cocksuckers”), he had no lack of female companionship and accumulated a loyal following of admirers and friends.  Ripping the chest open to reveal the heart that beats within is what Bukowski did best and my thirst will never be quenched!

So I live among these Walter Mitty paradigms of fantasy and as I dissect and digest the larger-than-life bits of humanity, the words of these authors pierce my mind and soul.  Within their uncompromising arrangements with life, I find my existence through each word and my validation through each emotion that is cajoled and caressed out of hiding.  Yes, I do go off on a tangent now and then and although I enjoy the trip, it’s always good to come home!

 

Seeking Bukowski in a Nicholas Sparks World

We live in a world that borders on idealism, false realism, and denial.  There is a growing market for bullshit polishers and I am sick of the plethora of political correctness pushers that are predominant in our current culture.  Hence the metaphors of Bukowski and Sparks.*  One speaks what we are truly thinking, what we wish we had the guts to say, the other speaks what we wish we were thinking because that does not conflict with the status quo.  The differences between the two are in-your-face: one can be compared to tenderly dressing a wound and applying antiseptic, along with the properly sized bandage, taking care the entire time to be considerate of the patient’s level of comfort and the alleviation of any fears that may be present; the other method, the Bukowski method, is like washing out a wound with peroxide, using Mercurochrome as the antiseptic, and to hell with the dressing!—both methods seem to achieve their intended purpose but the latter is faster,  more direct and more cost effective, and in addition, it is impossible to hide any infection.  When comparing both of these approaches to some of Life’s tougher situations, would you rather be told that if you try harder, do more, make yourself prettier, richer, etc., the world will eventually offer its rewards for you to claim? Or, would you rather have the awareness that the person lying next to you might someday leave you for someone younger, richer, and/or more better looking?  Or, even if you work your butt off, success may never arrive…?  Some willingly choose to bury their heads in the proverbial sands of oblivion, all the while convincing themselves that they will be the exception to the rule and besides, we have been spoon-fed the images of these types of fantasies all of our lives.

The land of Sparks is sagging flesh sustained by plastic surgery and slow death on life support.  On this terrain, belief in all kinds of nonsense is possible: happily ever after, the Golden Age of retirement, formulas for staying fit, young, and healthy, turn-key investments, blah, blah, blah.  The truth of the  matter is that these situations do exist, however, they are the exception rather than the rule and  when they don’t live up to the hype, all hell breaks loose because Life is unpredictable and we cannot foresee anything with a reasonable certainty.  There is nothing more miserable than to be going on about the business of life believing in bullshit, only to discover that it is far from ok and if only you had paid attention, trusted your gut, not been so trusting, etc., you wouldn’t have been blind-sighted by this betrayal and its inherent misery.

I say give me Bukowski, with his raw edginess and “rip-the-band-aid” realism, or give me a razor blade!  The land of Buk is like walking into blinding daylight after time spent in pitch darkness: it hurts, you can’t focus at first but eventually clarity is bestowed, and although the landscape is not perfectly groomed, the variety is refreshing and you at least know you are not in for any nasty surprises.  On this terrain, a four-wheeler might be needed but at least you are aware that one will be required.  And in the off-chance you might believe that Life is capable of throwing out more ugliness than you can handle, comfort will eventually arrive in the form of knowing that you have been equipped with the necessary supplies and the desire to survive.  Becoming willing to view Life in its riskiness and sometimes harsh reality is not for sissies, but to the extent that you are capable of comprehending the truths of the power of substance over form, you will succeed.  Perhaps your victory will not be what the culture considers achievement, but you will consider it so, and that is what makes Bukowskism so appealing.

So, what’s it going to be: the red pill…? or the blue pill…?  You decide.

 

* This is not intended to be a slam against the commercially successful Sparks, it is merely an instrument of comparison.

Valentine’s Day Makes Me Want to Puke

I love men and everything about them: their smell, their hair (in the right places!), their sweat, their muscular hardness, their penises, their bottoms, etc.  I especially love having sex with them and I enjoy a passionate interlude with all of its incumbent frills, however, I despise Valentine’s Day and I do not see its significance in regard to romance.  I know that ‘despise’ is a very strong term but I mean it to the nth degree and this is why:

  • Valentine’s Day is another way for single people to feel like shit about being single, when in fact, I am the envy of all of my married friends.
  • Cards for this day are everywhere and even if you don’t care for the cheesy sentiments and the plethora of candy and flower crap, you cannot help but have to be unconscious not to be bombarded by its over-marketed, in-your-face advertising.
  • Children cry when Valentine’s cards are passed out at school and they are mistakenly forgotten by someone (let’s give the benefit of the doubt) and why are children being influenced to think about romance anyway?  Shouldn’t they be thinking about kid stuff?
  • The expectations of your significant other (if you have one) are seriously jacked-up and the ante is raised higher and higher; if he/she doesn’t particularly buy into the mindless hype, does this mean they have stopped caring, loving, thinking, wanting you?  Mental masturbation ensues and the next thing you know, the only thing in front of you is the disappointment of non-communicated desires (which you probably didn’t even know you had until they were not met).
  • The “holiday” is a corporate-sponsored cash cow for the fat cats who are trying their hardest to run the world by relieving consumers of their hard-earned cash while they encourage mindless obedience to social/media/marketing worship.  Seriously, think about how much money you are willing to drop on a trinket, candy, flowers, cards, restaurant meals, etc. to avoid being in the doghouse?  It is absolutely ridiculous.

Ok, I have said my peace and I am feeling much better; it was not my intention to offend anyone with my soap-box sermon, I desire only to create some constructive dissension.  I, further, want to congratulate all of the members of the free-spirited minority that do not buy (literally) into this crap and instead DO things on a regular basis to let you your loved ones’ know you care.  Piss-off you greedy corporate bastards!

 

Reality: My Internal Fantasy

I have been emptied-out and I am dealing with a copious void.  This wasn’t without anticipation. However, no matter how prepared a person may be for the reappearance of the void, it still shocks the senses with its power to utterly zap the life, the excitement, and the energy right out of the soul.  I experienced a major life shift, at this time two years ago, when two of my dear friends committed suicide within days of each other; completely unrelated, the events of their passing felt like being thrown into space without oxygen.  Unable to write for a year, or more, I am now in the throws of some incredibly inspiring moments and I am feeling the catharsis of being able to write once again.  The space in which my friends occupied will never be filled again and it is not without some morbid reflection that I look back with those mother-f***ing “If Onlys” and then I have to put those thoughts away with every bit of will that I possess.

The power is in the present moment.  Life does not exist in the past and the events of that time are to remain within the construct of that never to be re-lived fragment.  So, what to do next?  I will put on my big-girl-panties and continue pressing one key after another until my fevered brain reaches a crescendo and eventually capitulates its written catharsis.  In other words, I am still working on Part Two of the “mysterious encounter” and have some ideas brewing and I will not disappoint.  I have been dealing with a sexual famine at this time and it has not been easy.  I have had to swallow that reality (metaphorically) with some brooding and short tempered outbursts but I have broken my fast and that is the important part.

“I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round…” -J. Lennon

I always feel like I should be doing “more” and that I am wasting my life if it is not crammed full of activity.  This feeling brings with it a state of futility and hopelessness that once started, is very difficult to shake.  What if I just accepted the fact that this “down” time is really preparation time for that indefinable future that is beyond my wildest imagination?

The truth is that I really need this down time to explore my inner world to seek out the hidden blocks to the abundance which I know exists within the constructs of blood, brain, and neural pathways.

I must always live somewhere quiet—where I can hear myself think and feel my heart beating.  To listen to the sounds of life around me is pure bliss, and to sit and observe the living creatures going on about the business of living, is pure joy.  Not the exuberant, loud and disruptive joy, but the kind that is quiet and expansive and knows no limits.

Trees

Men

I want to write about men.  Not because I know so much about them but because I know so little.  What about this man-thing has us women so flustered and feeling like a failure in spite of all of the evidence to the contrary?  I don’t get it; perhaps it links back to our reptilian brain function wherein having a mate was a guarantee of the perpetuation of the species…?  I certainly know this logically, however, we live on a planet with over six million people and I have contributed to three of that number.  So, what compels me to feel as though my life would be better, happier, less lonely, richer, more fun, more tasty, more of everything?

This is how it usually goes: I will be trucking along just fine, enjoying myself and appreciating the freedom that has come from raising three gorgeous, independent daughters, liberated from the confines of a troubled marriage to a narcissistically-driven ex-husband, spending my free thought time day dreaming about what it is I would like to experience next in this life and….BAM!  The vacuity begins to suck away at all of the glitter and sparkles and the next thing I realize is that I am thinking the same boring, repetitious thoughts: if only I had someone to share them with, if only I had someone to adore me as much as I want to adore them….blah, blah, blah.  The truth is that no matter how much self-talk that I do, no matter how much validation I receive, no matter the fullness of my life, this vague uneasiness settles over my joy like a sad movie (and those, I truly detest).

One of the most profound witticisms that I have heard is: wherever I am, that is not where I want to be; and I wonder if this is perhaps another form of that lack of self-satisfaction, or discontent, that is so prevalent among the bored and self-centered.  I have gratitude-d this funky feeling away, busy-ed it away, and made excuses for its presence; none of which lasts for very long.  At this present moment, I am home sick with the flu and cannot shake the absurd notion that if I had someone, they would alleviate my suffering and I would not feel so miserable and empty.  However, I know this to be false.  There is only one kind of loneliness that is worse than being alone and that is being lonely in a relationship.  Period.  There must be some point to all of this and I am going to at least make the effort to discover what this elusive man-thing brings to the table with which we females have set specifically for that purpose.

Looking back on the times that I have had a man in my life, I know that I have been distracted, dreamy, flirty, and giddy; I seem to revel in these immature emotions like a child who doesn’t want the day to end and the playtime to last forever.  I feel lighter than air, on top of the world, immune to the monotony that otherwise would fill a day; I can take pleasure in countless imaginary scenarios and dalliances that will most likely never happen but that provide amusement and inspiration for future get-togethers.  Of this pastime, I have no shortage of creativity.  Just thinking about it is enough to make my heart pound and my hands shake with excitement.

Maybe it isn’t the physical presence of a man that is so distracting but the mindset that accompanies the atmosphere with which man is contained; in other words, the context with which man is surrounded within the maelstrom of viscous he inhabits…?  Not having grown up with a father that was in any way present or dependable, I have had to fill a lot of that vacuum with daydreams and illusions.  Almost to the point of completely recreating the man from scratch, I often have not been able to see the man for who he really was because of the tendency to see only what I have been able to imagine.  Inevitably, the composite man that I have created has very little resemblance to the actual man present and the cycle is reset, again…

So, what does this have to do with men really?  Nothing.  This is merely the way that I deal with boredom and too much time spent thinking in my own head.  Perhaps the next time these illusions of discontent and fantasies of fulfillment attach themselves to my thoughts, I can remember that I am a dreamer and a lover and a creator of things inspiring and exciting and the acceptance of the status quo is something that is best left to rational thinkers and accountants.

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