This week has been rapid fire, busy, and … well, emotional. There was no intention on even updating this week. Readers know how to find my other and “focused” blog, The Inevitable Coffee Ring, through Syracuse New Times. The post on Tuesday can’t really be talked about, and insight cannot be given about it — it will ruin the integrity of the post. Today’s Espresso Shot, which is through the same blog, is an emotional thought experiment, which was inspired by events this past weekend.
I’m not the best guy to date. In fact, I’m far from it — you know, the so-called ideal. Yet, there is no classification with the bottom of the barrel. Like every guy out there, the asshole gene is encrypted in my DNA. Fortunately, for my benefit, I don’t fall into the cheating category. I’m not a glorified douchebag. There is no physical acts of harm ever done to my partners. However, my fallacies include being stubborn, blunt, rash, irrational, and notorious for calling things out when they may (or may not) be there.
However, all of these bastard qualities are reiterated and almost redundant to write.
And She will most likely read this despite her wanting to stay from it. There is no way She will be bashed, because it would be ridiculous and uncalled for. I’m not that type of writer. In the grand scheme of things, the culprit was miscommunication on both of our parts. She was acting strange one night, which made me uncomfortable, and it was addressed. The following day, while my person was in the middle of a bocce ball tournament that ran long, more miscommunication.
Then I told her to find someone else.
That buried me without having to even dig a hole in the ground. It’s possible to sucker punch yourself. Point proven. Again. And that’s when hating myself came into play, causing me to make myself feel so guilty and ill that leaving my room was only for getting water and going to the bathroom. Between Saturday afternoon and Monday afternoon, the house was left only once. Friday night was not all that it was cracked up to be; the improv set was not feeling organic, because a troop member within my group told an audience member’s word of inspiration off. No, he told the person in the audience.
Really? The one basic rule of improv is to say Yes. He tells the person the opposite. The whole dynamic depended on “asparagus;” however, “clothesline” metaphorically pulled the wrestling move of the same name on our set. A cubicle wall turned into a stall, which turned into a fence within the same skit. The palate cleanser took a turn for the sour; coaxing a fellow improviser into saying what he was doing turned into pointing out was was wrong with him. It was uncomfortable to “yes” that suggestion by fellow troupe member, and the result was the equivalent to smelly asparagus urine. After the set, I was apologizing to the “victimized” improviser for that turn during the show; it wasn’t my intention, but I felt really guilty about it. Since he one of my favorite people to perform with, I owed him an apology and a hug.
And then there is Robin Williams. Not was, but is. As bittersweet as the situation is, Nick Drake seemed to be the only music that was tolerated. How this affected me as much as it had, how it affected our nation and the rest of the world. It’s mind boggling. How selfish of me was it to wallow about my misery when this tragedy happens. But the fact of the matter was that there was truly unhappy. And there was seemingly no way out of it. A nice argument erupted from my avoidance, and a few hours later the notification about this beloved funny man and wonderful actor caused the earth to shift.
And the only insight for the two posts this week is that She inspired them. Tuesday’s post was a direct suggestion. Thursday’s/Today’s Espresso Shot was a result of feeling so low. The latter contains elements of Aimee Mann’s song, “Wise Up,” which is featured distinctly in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia. The only way to fight how I felt was to face something even more emotionally jarring, and Anderson’s 1999 masterpiece was the route to go. The transitioning from one scene to another was intentional to parallel another Anderson, Wes, with and his cinematography, the camera moving side-to-side, room-to-room, or scene-to-scene. The mirror, reflection specifically, and truly getting to know oneself is a theme that is often touched upon in my writing. Breaking the fourth wall concludes Magnolia, and that element was also intentional.
So today’s piece was a meditation, a thought experiment, and it sits more personal than anything else. It’s distress and helplessness from passion and adoration. And it sucks to not share the same feelings. What was thought to want to give up was the complete opposite, the desire to make something work with embracing the chaos, holding onto it even as it inflates and floats the person away. And it’s a clear reminder that life is not a movie. With a new positive mindset and sense of hope, there was a card for She; it was supposed to be given to her on Saturday, the day of our date that didn’t happen. The card sat in a book last night, which was on the passenger front seat in my car, but it was moved so She could sit … unknowing.
And when life hands you a catch, you step away from her more than two arm lengths away and stare in disbelief. Yet, She still stands there with all the qualities that are precise and perfect and adored.
And there’s guilt, regret, worry.
And this is all rubbery … like poorly prepared asparagus.