Buzzards, Blizzards, And Romancing The Errors Of Our Ways

08 Jan

error-ways

Error Of Our Ways

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Date: Mon Jan 8, 1996 10:55:08 PM America/New_York

Well Space, here we are, digging out from under 20" of snowfall with more due in on Friday. Spent a couple of hours shoveling off the front walk today, came inside, felt flushed over the face and ears, drowsy, and soon fell asleep on the sofa after accepting an invitation to shuffle across the city to party with them. I awoke several hours later but am beginning to feel the onset on flu symptoms, probably more a direct result of a month's accumulative sleep deprivation (even insomnia induced by this recent WWW addiction I've contracted) combined with poor nutrition than today's battle with the cold, but I reckon I'll get sick. I've been fortunate. Except for the obligatory hangover slop I'm left with after a shrill thrilsl of alcoholic haze, I haven't gotten sick in oh so many seasonal changes. And maybe I'll beat this thing, but my intestines are beginning to rage even as I write this.

Sue & I are still trapped into marital purgatory. Actually I have only one complaint, and after food, it is the second most basic instinct in man (and maybe fourth or fifth in woman) and that is some sort of fascinating sex life. As I said before, she's not agitating for change. I'm the troubled or dissatisfied complaintant here, but I know I'm desparate for a change. And I don't think she is capable of the kind of change I need, and have needed all my life, but I can no longer sublimate my urges. Twelve years of that has made into into a sort of desparate animal. I am absolutely serious here (although my unflappable roving mind is not only capable of multitasking and gameplaying, it insists upon these manipulations of general reality).

Sue suspects she would not have shown up even without the weather alibi because she failed to adhere to her own suggestion of a confirmation call, which we had to make, and were verbally abused for our efforts. She had asked the husband to leave a few weeks before. He was a drug addict, it seems. Sarah is a prototypical librarian or highly proficient secretarial feline, claws and wit, quite a combatant woman. A gin & tonic gal. wine spritzer sort, yet she has landed two druggies in the marriage pool. Strange world.
Yet for all my hyperintellectualization of my situation I cannot help thinking that these are the species of thought processes that must lead certain types of men and monster into rape and serial murder, others into war and pillage. You are right, I am carrying heavy baggage, and can't ever just stop and recognize happiness for what it truly is, the absence of agitation, because I have never felt free from agitation, neither social nor personal. I am reminded of Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf.

Depression has set in big time. I was so high I could die just 48 hours ago. A very rather kinetic woman with whom Sue & I had shared an airy ménage over several exciting months before she faded away nearly a decade ago, called the other night at 1:30 AM. Her husband (her second since we last saw each other nine years ago) had suicided himself with a shotgun right in front of her and her six year old daughter (by first husband) in their home. She wanted to see us. I wanted this as well, although comforting others after a tragedy is hardly my strong suit, but always quick to detect patterns I am forced to submit to the fact that Sarah has called several times over the past few years frenzied with apology and desire to reunite (she lives in Beltsville) only to just not show up, nor return follow-up calls, zilch, and this has happened yet again, although the snow storm this time is quite a good excuse. I don't know if I can stand the suspense she drives into me like a spike every time she pulls this routine, but here I was thinking she was a godsend with perfect timing, only to have these deviant hopes dashed by yet another sandbagging. Sue suspects she would not have shown up even without the weather alibi because she failed to adhere to her own suggestion of a confirmation call, which we had to make, and were verbally abused for our efforts. She had asked the husband to leave a few weeks before. He was a drug addict, it seems. Sarah is a prototypical librarian or highly proficient secretarial feline, claws and wit, quite a combatant woman. A gin & tonic gal. wine spritzer sort, yet she has landed two druggies in the marriage pool. Strange world.

Don't know what to expect. Probably nothing will come of this. As I said we haven't seen her and probably she's has called only four times over the past nine years, but over the phone last week she brought up several times the fact that she & I have a special marriage to remember, and by that she was referring to the blowjob she gave me at my wedding in her car after she asked me to walk her there. Oh Sarah, oh Sarah....

From the magic of the moment to the death knoll of panic. So bloated with anticipation (reeling like a monkey that she simply missed us and wanted to reinitiate a severed friendship I took personally as an insult back when she suddenly announced her first marriage and then simply vanished from our lives), and now so morbidly depressed, sick inside, syrup for blood, heavy arms, puffy corrupted eyes, the whole bit, when maybe after all is said and done it's the bell curve of just another snowjob that's eating at me. But I know that somebody has to suit up & gear up to shovel this mess off the streets of life so that others in their right minds might learn the inexplicable ways always quickening our fears & tickling our delights with error.

Buzzards, Blizzards, and romancing the errors of our ways...

Fats

© 1996 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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