Saturday, January 19, 2013

Forgetting. Living. And Fourogh Farrokhzad

Alas, another night in which it was my first intention to forget. Everything else - and anyone else -- a bonus.

I sat alone at the bar. I was not uncomfortable; this is my place, though it may be ridiculed by those that know me.

It permits me a quick exit (on at least most occasions): I'm  just sufficiently  attractive that I will draw to my attention by those whom subsequently ape the stereotypical Sorority Girl... worse, the ... desperate Sorority Girl , clearly shaken by the life she now leads, and seeing nothing that fit within her 15-year plan. Lastly, there are the drags of Irish Bar civilization in Arlington - or as close as we can get it. Sorry. I was all of those, though all of them are a part of me, intrinsically and inexplicably.

My BFF (female) left the night - at my encouraging - with a meathead physical therapist that apparently pushes her buttons enough... All the while being bombarded by someone - Mike - that has made every effort to be her Beta conquerer. This never works well - and I suspect he knows it... but it would seem he's in in for the long game.

My .022: unquestionably, I'm in love with her. She's so called me out on it, months ago. Yet I am old and observant enough to (1) know a friendzone for what it is; (2) her particularly ill-informed and ill-advised choices when it comes to suitors whom do not meet at least the minimum of so many variables - previously an insidious skill only in the quiver of the one man that broke her...

A public shame.

Lots of us have been cheated on. Some - like myself- accepted step-Mom back after a good, silent track record.

At that time, I had deluded myself into thinking that whatever I'd become would be good enough. It wasn't. Despite my best efforts.

I haven't found this - ever - since I stared looking specifically for it. It evidently falls in your lap, or so I am to believe both from observation as well as participation.

So, really... I've stopped trying. I'd rather spend my working performance tix at the Kennedy Center with someone that would enjoy the music rather than my company.  That person is likely myself. These are unforgivably bead odds. I've resolved to them.

Her - on the other hand - is still feeling what it is to be alone, all the goods and bads.

I bleed for her, as do I bleed for myself. Fortunately, I do not have the self-discipline she does. Bulleit Rye bourbon, please, straight up!

I am compelled to end this self-pitying post with some poetry, from Fourugh Farrokhzad:

The Gift
I speak from the deep end of night.
Of end of darkness I speak.
I speak of deep night ending.

O Kind friend, if you visit my house,
bring me a lamp, cut me a window,
So I can gaze at the swarming alley of the fortunate.

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