So, we were back in touch. Small talk ensued. Eventually events of the past were brought up; by him initially. He apologised. I apologised (I wasn't actually sorry about anything other than letting him into my knickers, but I have a reflexive habit of returning a sorry with one of my own). He liked me, but didn't want to like me. He thought we would get along. I liked him but didn't trust him to stick around, something which he found insulting, despite admitting that he just wants to Be Alone and Focus on His Art (did I mention he's a writer with a Bukowski complex?). The upshot was that we confused each other and ourselves and agreed that Facebook wasn't the best forum for such a conversation and we should leave it for another time. We tried to move on.
Which brings me to The Fight. He announced his new life plan (based on a Bukowski poem, of course) was to be alone, focus on writing, travel in his van and fund it all by money earned through medical trials. Apparently, loneliness produces great art, the hard times are the best and tragedy can be exciting; he has no time for people in jobs they hate complaining about being bored. Just quit! Focus on your art! etc, etc. I announced that I thought that this was bullshit, there is nothing romantic and glamorous about tragedy or loneliness and that for most people, they don't have an art they can rely on and therefore have to y'know, work in order to buy food.
We haven't spoken since; he, I assume, is offended by my outpouring of scorn on his life plan and I am too infuriated by his pretentious and immature outlook to talk to him.
For me, the whole debate has raised some serious questions. Do you have to agree with someone's life philosophy to still have romantic feelings for them? And does it matter when their life philosophy makes them completely unsuitable for longterm attachment? Then finally, exactly what do I value more? Security and love? Or artistic - and therefore possibly spiritual - fulfillment and satisfaction? Answers on a postcard please, because I don't have a fucking clue. One thing I do know - I've been through hard times whilst alone before, and it wasn't inspiring or interesting or exciting; it was hell and I'd do anything not to have to go there again.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Never trust a pretty face (part one)
I got into an argument the other night with someone who I've been on the cusp of developing feelings for recently. I've know them from afar for years, and although I always found them attractive it had never occurred to me that there could be anything more to it than that. To be completely honest, I always considered them far too physically attractive for me to even consider getting to know them any better. Then, just as everything with Him was falling apart the opportunity came to get to know The Handsome One came about. At first it was just a distraction. Unemployed and heartbroken, the chance to talk about films, books and philosophy with a good looking guy was a much welcomed break from moping. It was nice to have something to look forward to. And the discovery that THO was as interesting as he was pretty was exciting too. Then something changed... it became apparent that he found me attractive too, and on the eve of my Big Trip to regain my sanity he, for lack of a better term that doesn't make me blush, 'made a move'. I dealt with it by completely and utterly rejecting somebody who at any other time in my life I would have been grateful to even talk with, let alone sleep with (although that's a self esteem issue for a whole other post).
The point is, I had a chance with THO, who at the time seemed sincere, and I passed it up because I was too emotionally raw from recent events. In hindsight I think it was the best decision - I was in no way ready for another emotional entanglement, and if I learnt anything from 2008 it was that I am no longer capable of casual sex with men I find attractive as well as interesting.
So I went away, had an amazing and healing time, and returned feeling ready to deal with the world again. Another opportunity materialised with THO and this time, I took it. I won't go into details but sufficed to say his good looks, easy charm and a copius amount of cider may have affected my judgement and the night ended in a less than ladylike manner on a sofa after a mutual friend's houseparty. I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I woke up, but the following turn of events weren't it:
1. Not only was THO no longer there, but he had moved into the mutual friend's bed and was spooning a miscellaneous blonde.
2. I left, justifiably confused and humiliated, without saying goodbye.
3. By the time I had got home and showered I received a message from him, concerned and apologetic, asking to meet him later that day. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I agreed.
4. He stood me up.
5. He made excuses and avoided me for a week and then left town.
I think you will understand when I say that after all this I was pissed off. Months passed with no contact, and then, recently he got back in touch through that most romantic and sensitive of mediums - Facebook.
The point is, I had a chance with THO, who at the time seemed sincere, and I passed it up because I was too emotionally raw from recent events. In hindsight I think it was the best decision - I was in no way ready for another emotional entanglement, and if I learnt anything from 2008 it was that I am no longer capable of casual sex with men I find attractive as well as interesting.
So I went away, had an amazing and healing time, and returned feeling ready to deal with the world again. Another opportunity materialised with THO and this time, I took it. I won't go into details but sufficed to say his good looks, easy charm and a copius amount of cider may have affected my judgement and the night ended in a less than ladylike manner on a sofa after a mutual friend's houseparty. I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I woke up, but the following turn of events weren't it:
1. Not only was THO no longer there, but he had moved into the mutual friend's bed and was spooning a miscellaneous blonde.
2. I left, justifiably confused and humiliated, without saying goodbye.
3. By the time I had got home and showered I received a message from him, concerned and apologetic, asking to meet him later that day. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I agreed.
4. He stood me up.
5. He made excuses and avoided me for a week and then left town.
I think you will understand when I say that after all this I was pissed off. Months passed with no contact, and then, recently he got back in touch through that most romantic and sensitive of mediums - Facebook.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
The Truth of the Matter
"Babes...."
"Yes love?"
"Why are we special though? What makes us so special that we don't have to work when everyone else is?"
The babes used to be ironic. When we both had media jobs, darling, it was a little nod at the ridiculousness of the industry that we felt we were above. Now that we're both unemployed the irony has dissipated slightly, but it's become habit.
The problem with being jobless in the summer is that it starts to feel like a holiday. You're sat in the park with Dick and Nicole Diver, a vanilla latte in one hand and a cinnamon swirl in the the other, a copy of the Guardian sat waiting to be perused and it's hard to remember why, exactly, you need to work anyway. I mean there's always the question of funds, but more often than not there's a parent or a government handout to answer that for you.
My biggest downfall in life is that I have the perfect temperament to be an artist. Living from hand to mouth, working when inspiration hits me and greedily absorbing all other cultural forms on my time off, I don't need structure and security to be content. A writer sat at my antique roll-top desk all day writing a novel that will become the voice of my generation - it's where I've always seen myself.
Although between the endless Twittering and Facebook updates, I'm not so sure my generation needs another voice.
There's just one fly in this fantasy ointment, one hitch on the ladder up to cultural significance - I'm not talented. I never have been. Oh, I'm certainly intelligent, and I have a good eye for other people's work, a certain 'je ne sais quoi' when it comes to writing a witty email; but genuine, unmistakeable artistic talent? Unfortunately not. Which begs the question - what is a middle class girl to do when she realises that she's too flighty to succeed in the corporate world and just too average to succeed in the arts?
"Yes love?"
"Why are we special though? What makes us so special that we don't have to work when everyone else is?"
The babes used to be ironic. When we both had media jobs, darling, it was a little nod at the ridiculousness of the industry that we felt we were above. Now that we're both unemployed the irony has dissipated slightly, but it's become habit.
The problem with being jobless in the summer is that it starts to feel like a holiday. You're sat in the park with Dick and Nicole Diver, a vanilla latte in one hand and a cinnamon swirl in the the other, a copy of the Guardian sat waiting to be perused and it's hard to remember why, exactly, you need to work anyway. I mean there's always the question of funds, but more often than not there's a parent or a government handout to answer that for you.
My biggest downfall in life is that I have the perfect temperament to be an artist. Living from hand to mouth, working when inspiration hits me and greedily absorbing all other cultural forms on my time off, I don't need structure and security to be content. A writer sat at my antique roll-top desk all day writing a novel that will become the voice of my generation - it's where I've always seen myself.
Although between the endless Twittering and Facebook updates, I'm not so sure my generation needs another voice.
There's just one fly in this fantasy ointment, one hitch on the ladder up to cultural significance - I'm not talented. I never have been. Oh, I'm certainly intelligent, and I have a good eye for other people's work, a certain 'je ne sais quoi' when it comes to writing a witty email; but genuine, unmistakeable artistic talent? Unfortunately not. Which begs the question - what is a middle class girl to do when she realises that she's too flighty to succeed in the corporate world and just too average to succeed in the arts?
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
I am George Harvey Bone
I watched Requiem for a Dream last night
I felt violated. So dark. Too much given my current state of mind
Great editing though.
I am getting rid of the DVD, don't want to even have it in my possession. It's the Portishead 3rd album all over again.
He leaves on Sunday. For good. It's been an intense week of declarations with ambivalent responses. Can't even talk about it.
Reading a great book at the moment - Hangover Square, Patrick Hamilton. Main character is schizophrenic... obsessively in love with someone who tolerates him with no returned affection... eventually I think he murders her.
The state of mind of Mr Bone is hilariously, painfully, brutally reflective of my own.
I felt violated. So dark. Too much given my current state of mind
Great editing though.
I am getting rid of the DVD, don't want to even have it in my possession. It's the Portishead 3rd album all over again.
He leaves on Sunday. For good. It's been an intense week of declarations with ambivalent responses. Can't even talk about it.
Reading a great book at the moment - Hangover Square, Patrick Hamilton. Main character is schizophrenic... obsessively in love with someone who tolerates him with no returned affection... eventually I think he murders her.
The state of mind of Mr Bone is hilariously, painfully, brutally reflective of my own.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
First
A warning - there will be no preamble. This is going to start where my thoughts are now, I have no desire to write up the backstory. Love it or leave it, that's the way it's going to be.......
When I was with Him I felt a strange ownership, but only while he was sleeping. When he was asleep I used to watch him and feel strangely territorial - I'd find a freckle, a rogue chest hair, a scar and I'd think - they're mine, for now at least they belong to me. And I'd feel strangely proud, a sense of accomplishment. As if by lying there with him I'd already achieved something. But then just as I could feel my hand creeping out to claim ownership of what I'd already considered mine for the past few years without him even knowing, I'd remember where I was and who I was with ... and I would bring my hand back.
I've never really felt like that with anyone else. I never felt the need to own anybody before - I didn't want to be theirs and I didn't mind that they weren't mine. But with him, there was an almost physical yearning to own him, to keep him, to hold the exclusive rights. Maybe it's the old cliche coming true - I wanted what I couldn't have. But I'm not convinced by that. I don't think having him would have lessened it, it just would have made it easier. And harder too perhaps - I'm not niave enough to have not realised that there was a certain amount of projection happening. That the reality may well have fallen short of the fantasy.
I think that's why I've been so dissatisfied with everyone since. I miss that sense of ownership. For the first time in my life, I want to own and be owned. I want to take possession of someone, every flaw, every mark, every success and I want that sense of pride. I want to belong to someone too. That's what was missing with Him - he didn't want to own me. Next time, I want the ownership to be a two-way street.
When I was with Him I felt a strange ownership, but only while he was sleeping. When he was asleep I used to watch him and feel strangely territorial - I'd find a freckle, a rogue chest hair, a scar and I'd think - they're mine, for now at least they belong to me. And I'd feel strangely proud, a sense of accomplishment. As if by lying there with him I'd already achieved something. But then just as I could feel my hand creeping out to claim ownership of what I'd already considered mine for the past few years without him even knowing, I'd remember where I was and who I was with ... and I would bring my hand back.
I've never really felt like that with anyone else. I never felt the need to own anybody before - I didn't want to be theirs and I didn't mind that they weren't mine. But with him, there was an almost physical yearning to own him, to keep him, to hold the exclusive rights. Maybe it's the old cliche coming true - I wanted what I couldn't have. But I'm not convinced by that. I don't think having him would have lessened it, it just would have made it easier. And harder too perhaps - I'm not niave enough to have not realised that there was a certain amount of projection happening. That the reality may well have fallen short of the fantasy.
I think that's why I've been so dissatisfied with everyone since. I miss that sense of ownership. For the first time in my life, I want to own and be owned. I want to take possession of someone, every flaw, every mark, every success and I want that sense of pride. I want to belong to someone too. That's what was missing with Him - he didn't want to own me. Next time, I want the ownership to be a two-way street.
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