Bugger, there goes my brain again...

Firstly, the irony of listening to “I
would do anything for love” by Meatloaf as I began writing this is not lost on
me.

On the subject of attraction, since
the subject as brought up briefly by John Drury has been on my mind, I thought
I’d add my two silver doubloons. (because the information is less precious than
gold, but larger in mass than a penny).

                 For years I made the mistake of trying to
establish guidelines for what I found attractive in a woman;  it took me those years to establish that such
a thing was virtually impossible to accurately quantify. Physically, it was
fairly easy to establish what would turn my head: long hair, the use of
glasses, understated beauty, a figure that suggests health without giving in to
either heftiness or anorexia. (Yes, structurally my ideal woman has changed
very little over the years) As I suspect most men do, however, I’ve found myself
often making concessions emotionally and cerebrally for women I found
physically attractive, never really establishing what beyond the esthetic value
of crude flesh appealed to me. As a result my heart, such as it is, tends to
bend whichever way the sun shines the brightest, so to speak; those women who I
already find attractive who treat me with the courtesy, respect or even
pity-filled kindness are often those I find myself most easily drawn to. A
blindingly attractive woman who ignores me may turn my head, but moments later
is likely forgotten. A reasonably attractive woman who gives me the time of day
or, Heron forbid, actually indulges in pleasant conversation with I will likely
obsess over for months.

                That’s really how little encouragement my flawed affections need to find a direction
to flow.

                I suppose it’s actually fortunate that opportunities for even that level of
interaction to find its way into my life; I’ve no way of knowing whether I
would have eventually grown desensitized enough to basic courtesy and kindness
that I no longer single-minded focused on those women who offered it to me or
whether I’d have been pulled in twenty different directions by every woman who
was nice to me.

                There is one key exception to this rule, something I’ve mostly managed to quantify
only by associating it with spirituality and personal delusion. For those
reading this whose feet are firmly entrenched in reality, this may come as
rather difficult to swallow.

                First, a little backstory: I didn’t read Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn until just a couple of years ago, but the animated adaptation of the tale was one of the movies of my formative years. I remember,
after the first time I watched the movie, spent no small amount of time weeping
over the knowledge that, given that there are supposedly no more unicorns in
the world, King Haggard must have actually succeeded, leaving the earth bereft.
As time went on, I came to the conclusion that if King Haggard had actually
succeeded, then Lady Amalthia must have ended up marrying Prince Lir, which
meant (to my mind, fed on fantasy, science fiction and horror from an early
age) that the magic bloodline of unicorns was now loose in the human gene pool
and must manifest in some way. As Lady Amalthea’s eyes refused to reflect like
human eyes, I assumed the only visible sign of carrying the blood of the
unicorn was in the eyes. This was the inception of my search for a woman with
the Eyes of the Last Unicorn.

                Over the years, my conception of how this magical legacy manifested has evolved
somewhat, mostly as a result of the two women who I believe do actually carry
some of that gift in their veins. Indeed, it is certainly there in their eyes,
rather a sensation that one can either not meet her gaze or can’t stop looking
into them, but more there is a vast sensation of creative and compassionate
power in their person; why I associate this with the legacy of a magical beast
better known for its aloofness excepting in the presence of virginal woman I
don’t really know, but it seemed natural to me. 
More telling is the need these women generate in others to be in their
presence. This, it seems to me, is the natural evolution of the fact that the
Last Unicorn seemed desired by everyone that crossed her path, from Mommy
Fortuna to Molly Gru to King Haggard himself.

                As one might guess, this sets the already high bar of expectations I maintain for a long-term
mate way up into the stratosphere. As I’ve already mentioned, in the twenty odd
years I’ve been on this romantic quest of sorts, I’ve met all of two women who
met the criteria I set forward and neither of which were available to me. One
had yet to find herself and did so after she left my sight, the other is
happily married and I think no one would be fool enough to doubt the wisdom of
her choice.

                So, I am left to continue my search for the light bright enough to cast me in shadow
in our painfully mundane world. Realism be damned and cast aside compromise; I
have my hopes, my dreams, my convictions, my delusions and beside them, whether
partnered or alone…

                I will stand.

Well…that meandered a bit. I hope I didn’t bore anyone or lose any friends along the way. I guess this had all been
just weighing on me a bit lately. Felt the need to get a little unburdened.

Dead End

Draig-Uisge; Os

May the Wages of the Sword be Kind...

So, my writing has come to a grinding halt. While I continue to harbor this (somewhat delusional) dream of one day being a professional author, I find my motivation to do the work that is involved in writing novels and even short stories has waned to the point of non-existence. It's not that I don't still have ideas that I think would make good stories, but rather that the prospect of struggling to turn said ideas into printable reading material is just too intimidating to contemplate. My years of studying the market, investigating how the business of writing works and educating myself on proper writing structure and technique have somehow managed to effectively murder my enjoyment of the art. I've tried writing just for the fun of it, but that isn't honestly what I've ever done: I've always written with an audience in mind, always created stories with the expectation of having a separate reader. As such, even when I'm supposed to be just writing for me, I find myself consistently dissatisfied with my own work, convinced that “Nobody will want to read this shit.”

So far, all I've been able to manage is the occasional scrawling of an idea here and there and my intermittent journal entries (not that those are hard to do; I always have something to bitch about). The further, time-wise, I get from my ideas, the more stagnant they seem to me, to the point that I can't be bothered to work on an old idea because I am no longer convinced its feasible. My ancient Samrahad series is a good example of this; although that world plagues my conscience constantly, I can't seem to restructure the story into something that doesn't just piss me off with it's hackneyed-ness. Other concepts dissuade me with their level of complication or required research, like Loki's Legacy or my homage to H.P. Lovecraft.

I can only assume at this point that I've become so far removed from the written word that I may never realize this dream I've clung to since the age of 13...and I really can't fathom what it would take to get back on track. Or, more to the point, I don't think I have what it takes to get back to the point that writing professionally would ever be on the horizon.

...may my next step never be my last.

Meandering

May the Wages of the Sword be Kind...

It's been a while since I tried to seriously journal the wild meanderings in my head, the broken trail of profound epiphanies, puerile imaginings and abject insanity that make up my thought process. Even as I begin now, I find myself remembering why I've been avoiding the process: it's exhausting.

I haven't said anything yet and I'm already fatigued by the effort to wrestle my thoughts into something cohesive.

My friend's Vixen and the Lady Vermilion have made a point of saying, to paraphrase, “it's my blog, I'll write what I like and if you don't like what I'm writing, don't read it”. In my own case, I had oft found myself using the excuse that “nobody wants to hear this” to avoid writing. As of this particular journal entry, I am going to do my best to break that particular habit; after all, blogs shouldn't really be written for the pleasure of others, but as a form of catharsis for writer. Bearing that in mind, however, I feel I should warn any potential readers that if they aren't prepared to wade through my own peculiar form of introspection, they shouldn't bother reading what I have to say in my journal.

Here be Monsters.

I've had occasion recently to review my romantic inclinations, examining the flaws in my thought processes and often finding new failings I hadn't previously identified. Between the encouragement of my co-workers and the unexpected upgrade to 'attractive' on my profile at OkCupid, I've developed a sort of ephemeral confidence that tends to evaporate like mist in the sunlight of circumstances with romantic potential. It'll be no surprise to anyone that's known me for some time that, on the surface, I have bankrupt sense of self worth and all the confidence of a weasel without his rue. (bonus points for citing the reference) However, I have recently discovered, beyond cowardice and self-disgust, that there is yet another reason why I fail to act.

Somewhere along the way in my development, I appear to have developed the ridiculous notion that I should be the one approached, rather than be the approacher. How this concept emerged to contaminate my personality I cannot guess; although in recent years, the playing field of dating has leveled somewhat in this respect, during my formative years it was still an expectation that the male would be the instigator of romance for the most part. So, whence came this concept into my personal vision of the world? And furthermore, does not this idea conflict with my presupposition of my own undesirability?

Knighthood preserve me, how did my psyche end up as such a charlie-foxtrot?

Now, I don't think the expectation here is that women should be throwing themselves at me; even my dysfunctional ego never quite runs that wild. I think where the true failing point here is that I seem to expect overt signals of attraction that would prompt me to act. The irony in that is that, not only are women not prone to making their desires that easily known, but according to a number of experts on the subject, I am unfortunately completely oblivious to all but the very most blatant signs of attraction. Oddly enough, I often misinterpret simple kindnesses and courtesies as the very signals I fail to recognize.

Maybe I should build myself a monastery and just be done with it. Nah. That would be too much like giving up. Surely while there is breath in the body, there is hope, thin hope though it may be.

And now back to your regularly scheduled reality.

...may my next step never be my last.

Plowing Through

Feoh; Draig-Athar( r )

May the Wages of the Sword be Kind...

Goals are ephemeral things at best. Joining motivation to inspiration is rather like trying to farm for fog or herd cats. I suppose it's hardly to be unexpected that after so many years of lackadaisical efforts, that I should find it so difficult to recover my momentum. My attempts to correct all my failing paths at once don't allow for much progress in any one direction at a time. My forward momentum has been all but glacial, owing as much to my own innate capacity for laziness as to external distractions.

So...I sit here at my place of sanctuary from my own weaknesses, listening to the Phantom of the Opera, trying valiantly to regroup and channel my current burst of energy into something resembling a constructive outlet. After a review of my many begun but unfinished or unpolished works, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of how involved and numerous my prospective rewrites are. Though I've made inroads towards straighten out my lifestyle into a healthier pattern, but I always feel as though I'm doing too little far too late. And of course, trying to maintain the house while also trying to organize into a maintainable arrangement is slowly proving an exorcise in madness.

Well, there's no point in dwelling on the work ahead; staring at it will not complete it any faster. Time to lower the head and lay on.

...may my next step never be my last.

Two songs...

...that are resonating in different parts of my mind lately, the first echoing long buried feelings in the basement of my heart, the second more a declaration of how I feel about myself as a prospective romantic interest.

"Snuff" by Slipknot

Bury all your secrets in my skin
Come away with innocence and leave me with my sins
The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

So if you love me let me go
And run away before I know
My heart is just too dark to care
I can't destroy what isn't there

Deliver me into my fate
If I'm alone I cannot hate
I don't deserve to have you
Ooh, my smile was taken long ago
If I can change I hope I never know

I still press your letters to my lips
And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss
I couldn't face a life without your lights
But all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fight

So save your breath, I will not care
I think I made it very clear
You couldn't hate enough to love
Is that supposed to be enough?

I only wish you weren't my friend
Then I could hurt you in the end
I never claimed to be a saint
Ooh, my own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go

So break yourself against my stones
And spit your pity in my soul
You never needed any help
You sold me out to save yourself

And I won't listen to your shame
You ran away, you're all the same
Angels lie to keep control
Ooh, my love was punished long ago
If you still care don't ever let me know
If you still care don't ever let me know

"Best of the Worst" by Charm City Devils

Here I come callin' to stir your emotions                                                                                                          with flashes of passion and a touch of devotion
ya know I been listening to what u missin'                                                                                                           by walkin' and talkin' and waitin' and wishin'

oh wishin'

all I wanna say with u right in front of me
is all I wanna do is be right in front of you
cuz sometimes I'm a fool
sometimes I'm a humble man
sometimes I'm the only one in the room who don't understand yeah
I'm no angel but I know I'm no curse
I'm not like all the other bad bad boys who loved you first
I know I'm not perfect, but baby maybe I'm the best of the worst

everyone's sayin' that I have been changin'
but I have not changed, no I am just playin'

a different game
cuz your not the same

all I wanna say with u right in front of me
is all I wanna do is be right in front of you
cuz sometimes I'm a fool
sometimes I'm a humble man
sometimes I'm the only one in the room who don't understand yeah
I'm no angel but i know I'm no curse
I'm not like all the other bad bad boys who loved you first
I know I'm not perfect, but baby maybe I'm the best of the worst

If you let me in I'll treat you right

sometimes I'm a fool
sometimes I'm a humble man
sometimes I'm the only one in the room dont understand
I'm no angel
but I know I'm no curse

and I'll treat u right cuz i know how u been hurt
i my not be perfect but baby I'm the best of the worst

Snuff only pops up every so often, but Best of the Worst seems to be stuck on repeat in my head. 

Oh well. Whatchya gonna do, right?