A Rose Torn Apart

Romantic mystery, ha. Deep understanding, ha. Intense yearning, ha. You know, romanticism should be guillotined. It is the root of unfair expectation and misguided interpretation. In order to maintain the fantasy, it occupies itself in the eyes and nose, the lips and cheekbones. Yes, it resides in the physical appearance of its human puppets. Smiles and gazes do well to bewitch and capture, yet to penetrate beneath the muscle and dermis is to expose the lie. Lust masquerades as a poem; sweet lines dripping over his tongue, spilling over, languishing softly on his lips. Greed is disguised in the vibrancy of a red rose, the smoothness of expensive chocolate, and in the touch of velvet palms. So often, dreaming girls mistake attention for care, or conversation for understanding. The emotions seem so earnest, the efforts so sincere. Yet these shallow demonstrations are little more than a high-gloss finish on a clogged outhouse. It has been said that however much you polish a turd, it is still a turd. A diamond ring is romanticism's polished turd. A five-star dinner on a terrace in Paris, France is romanticism's polished turd. Rose petals and champagne are, you guessed it, polished turds. Don Juan's turd had the polish which Jack the Ripper's turd lacked. And that, my friends, is a rose torn apart.

Po-Dunk

Apparently, he can afford a state-of-the-art sound system for his beat up Chevy, but he can't afford to wear something besides sweatpants and a wife beater. Apparently, rap is the only music in existence and musicals are for gay people. Apparently, tobacco is the most important food group, and Budweiser should be guzzled like H2O. Apparently, babies are the most hip thing to carry onstage at graduation other than a diploma. Apparently, "please" and "thank you" are no longer considered a part of polite vernacular, and can instead be replaced with baboon-like grunts. Apparently, sluts call sluts sluts. Apparently, gossip is perfectly acceptable as long as you promise to pray for the "sinner". Apparently, it is normal to carefully disinfect a baby's highchair and then proceed to blow cigarette smoke into its face. Apparently, one can tan one's skin to the point of being black and also be racist. Apparently, people pay 50,000 dollars on college so they can booze and mess around in order to acquire jobs which pay enough to allow more boozing and messing around. Apparently, Wal-Mart is the Taj Mahal of America. Welcome to Po-Dunk.

Pulling the Puzzles Apart

Maybe it is something in their aura. A certain part of their appearance breathes something different, whimsical in nature, it seduces the viewer. I knew not to expect it when I was younger, yet now am forced to daily consider why I miss out. I have found no comparison. Its power is unique and binding, even to those for whom it is not displayed. Granted, I still have plenty of time to spend waiting, but already I feel my patience running out. There are reasons as to why I have yet to encounter it. I know it already. I pass by seemingly good opportunities, and I trump up scenarios that would satisfy others. They were both dating other people, and he gave her that look; the kind that encompasses everything. I felt the intensity in his stare, even if it lasted for but a few moments. It contained deep understanding, and yet held a kind of deep yearning to unlock more of her mystery. Blame it on my casual air. I am so good at it. Two independent desires intertwined: to be left alone and to be with someone. I have done well to ignore the happy people around me, reasoning that it isn't all it's cracked up to be. I continue in my own happy way, never asking myself whether or not I would prefer the alternative. Because this is working. When I question whether or not to continue, I continue, because that's what you do. However, that look is what I await. Someday, my vulnerability will make a deserved appearance. Until then, it is always waiting on the surface, beneath a carefully constructed wall of apathy.

BF4EVER...or until I have to make an effort.

I remember having a conversation with my brother about seven or eight years ago. I asked him why it seemed that one of our mutual acquaintances had way more friends than me. He said, "It's because she is just more friendly than you; she has a genuine smile." I recall that it struck me as odd, because I never saw myself as unapproachable or artificial. Shy, perhaps. More likely to shake your hand than hug you, sure, but still friendly. I didn't have scores of friends. I had "best friends" and therefore counted myself among the other lonely girls who pretended that quality outranked quantity. Of course, my social horizon grew somewhat during my adolescent years. High school has a way of shoving too many people in your direction all at once, and then graduation occurs, leaving you exactly the way you began: friendless. It is one of the many transition periods one must go through in order to become an adult. If the human social life could be compared to a process in nature, it would be the transformation of the caterpillar into the butterfly. Only reverse that. We begin beautiful and vibrant and end up warped and trapped in a lonely shell of our own making. I digress. The point is, I used to be nice. I was blessed with the ability to have a real interest in people. I see people. I perceive their true emotions, even as they try their hardest to emit something else. I listen because I understand, and because for some reason, I'm extremely sensitive to the pain and distress of others. I am doubly aware of when I cause injury or friction. I feel it in a pause, or an averted eye, and can never quite cope with my own guilty conscience. But people like me have an even more terrible problem. We're expendable. I guess sometimes, I can be too quiet, too flexible, too eager to help. I've become the doormat for everyone's issues. Yet I don't mind listening, unless my attention becomes the only reason you call. I suppose people equate the ability to listen with stupidity. They assume I don't realize their pattern, as if it's really that difficult to figure out. Delayed communication, excuses, and finally the supposed deal-clincher: "But I miss you so much!" As if that impassioned statement is supposed to make up for months without so much as a phone call or a Facebook post. As I told a friend the other day, I am still genuine and friendly, but I've developed a hard edge, a dark side. The scary kind that may eclipse what's left of the good. If this happens, perhaps it will be comforting to know it was all for the sake of self-preservation. Yet if I strive to maintain a trusting spirit, totally willing to give rather than receive, who is to say that wouldn't hurt me more in the end? I guess I am just trying to figure out which method of self-destruction I'd prefer.

Love

He picked a fresh, throbbing brain from his own imagination and thrust it into the plastic head of his blow-up doll. She spoke words he thought he needed and for hours he held her, just clinging like a babe to its mother. She was the culmination of his every disappointment and fantasy. Staving off his desperate hunger, she fed his hopeless desire. She was the personification of a brilliant mind and a passionate soul. Lying awake for hours, they talked of dreams and the mysterious future. He said her eyes were like jewels lying hidden in a bright, azure ocean. Every time they pierced his he felt the thrill of a treasure found. Stroking her elastic arm, he wept and whispered, "I love you", holding her still tighter as the lie became evident. Because for a moment he felt the heat of her neck, the supple skin on her cheeks, and a velvet whisper in his ear. And in a moment, she would be gone, and he would be left with her cold shell, vacant of flesh and desire.

Validation

I was driving to work one day, feeling strangely morose, when suddenly I was struck with a haunting thought. "How much validation do I find in the leer of a man?" I've always considered myself somewhat proper, sometimes severely reserved, and very likely to ignore any whistles, elevator stares, or otherwise inappropriate affronts from strange men. What is the typical reaction of a female to the unabashed stare of perverted males? I've witnessed such scenes innumerable times and therefore have it involuntarily planted in my brain. She curls her lips in distaste, eyes narrowed furiously beneath the dark tint of her sunglasses. Instinctively, she straightens her spine, her stride becomes a strong, haughty march as she transforms into an irreconcilable force. Every attempt has been made to show her displeasure, and she finally mutters, "pervert", just for good measure. Yet I think if women were honest, most would be unable to deny a conflict of feelings when such things transpire. Disgust? Yes. Unbridled condescension? Of course. Humilation? Possibly. However, when she has finished processing this range of emotions, she may be left with a somewhat disconcerting conclusion: I am something worth looking at. And when this startling discovery is made again and again as these encounters continue throughout our lives, as we are conditioned to the feeling of shallow satisfaction followed by a leer, we come to expect and even hope for such attention. Because what is respect among strangers? She is not friends with this man. He is not acquainted with her. When interactions lack emotional or moral responsibility, what difference does it make if he garners some sick fulfillment from her body? It is this purposeful disconnection from humanity, from decency, which allows men to behave as degenerates and women to encourage them with silence and shorter skirts. Perhaps this issue can be attributed to our "microwave" culture, our "quick-fix", "I-want-it-now" society. Women are finding it impossible to wait for the attentions of a respectable and loyal companion. In Tennessee William's play, "A Streetcar Named Desire", no one is a more poignant example of this than the leading lady, Blanche DuBois. She is beautiful, sophisticated, intensely intellectual, and the picture of elegance and refinement. But there is a strange insecurity in Blanche, an unmet need that increasingly haunts her. She desires a husband; a man who like her, appreciates beauty and art and delicate manners. Yet having been subjected to harsh misfortunes, including her first husband's suicide, she becomes both prey and predator to lonely soldiers and young, vulnerable boys. She finds waiting too difficult, and the effort to hold onto the interests of one mediocre, subpar suitor too strenuous. Williams wrote "Streetcar" in 1947 yet Blanche's final declaration is still tragically accurate: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Ruby Red Slippers

I was sitting there and thinking, "isn't it about time?" Kept wondering, shouldn't this be it? Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Patience. Keep on hoping. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. How long have I been waiting? Isn't it about time? I'm tired of sympathizing, tired of patting everyone else's head and saying, "How awful for you." What about me? I don't want to be your case, your therapy session. I'm not a charity case. I'm a lifelong issue. One problem today, two more tomorrow, three next week, and so on and so forth. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I want to try. I'd like to improve. To move forward and abandon every burden. But what about everything else I thought I wanted? These desires that press me even now when I'm feeling so hopeful? Are they hurdles placed in my path simply to distract me? Or are they just as real as the dream to change? And what about your answers? I'm afraid you may be correct. About everything. In which case, I'm more lost than before. Contrasting previous thought with present revelation. Can I be expected to distinguish between which is best? Maybe I'm done with all of these questions. Or maybe I can't help it. Maybe it doesn't even matter. Just keep telling myself, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home." Oh wait, I forgot, no place is home.