Now That I'm Forty...


Born in New York and now going to die in New York. Someday.

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Now That I'm Forty...

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Saturday, March 19, 2005

SHO, WHO ARE YOU?

I just saw your comment after I posted the last post.

Thank you for expressing your concern. I won't kill myself. I'm way too paranoid about Hell to do that. Plus, I don't ever want to give up. I'm fighting so hard. I'm fighting so hard. Soo so hard.

I keep thinking that there will be a Change. That there will be an opportunity come around if I hang in there long enough. I established this blog because I wanted to burn off anxiety when I was moving into the city. I believed I was living my dream come true and I'm a writer at heart, so I combined to two and dealt with the fears of All That Could Go Wrong. It's strange, in hindsight, to realize that I was afraid of the outlandish possibilities, rather than the more mundane ones--and it's the mundane ones that have come true. I haven't been mugged or gotten in a car crash, or been the victim of another terrorist attack. No, I just ran out of money and can't get enough emotional strength to make enough. How boring and stupid.

And everytime I languish in despair a little trooper peeps up inside and says, "Maybe you can write a book!" "Maybe you can win the lottery!" "Maybe a rich star will make you his buddy at Starbucks!" "Maybe you can go into modeling!"

Crazy. But something's always trying to get me to save my life.

I don't want to die. I want to LIVE. That's what's so sad and frustrating and desperate.

I want a life, not a death.

How about you?
:-)

Me at 3/19/2005 01:50:00 PM

Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous

1000's of people a day decide not to follow the lifestyles they've been given. Children of rich parents leave their circles of influence and go to Starbucks and makes friends with an 8.00/hr barista. Children of poor parent(s) work hard at school and get a scholarship, go to NYU, graduate cum laude and make high-end six-figured salaries in their twenties. Black kids pick up guitars and play Van Halen. White kids wear SeanJohn and hoodies and quote 50 Cent verbatim.

Today I watch two movies and cried like a baby each time. One was "The Other Sister". (I cry just thinking about it right now). A mentally retarded young woman loves and marries a mentally retarded young man with all the innocence and purity of 8 year-olds. Their anger is red-hot and loud and embarrassingly juvenile. And so is their love.

I cry because...I want to be like that. I'm a forty-year old man who has never had sex because I have never learned how to be that innocent and that trusting. I don't know what happened. I didn't do it to myself. I never chose the things in my 8-year old life. My 12-year old life. My 16-year old life. I didn't tell myself to be born to Helen White. I didn't tell her to leave me eight hours a day, forty hours a week, Saturdays and Sundays included, where I could find her pornography--her 8mm films and her pornographic novels. Why did the woman even HAVE those things in the house, let alone leave me with them? What was she doing with them? Why would a woman even HAVE pornography? I thought that was a MAN'S bag?

Well, it became MY bag. I couldn't wait for her to leave so I could plunder that stuff. About once a week did it for me. Then exploration. The tingly feelings in the groin. The racing heart. The heady, masculine rush of sexualness. Pictures on the book covers. Images on my mother's bedroom wall projected from the clicking little machine that I had threaded. Two couples shown having sex laying side by side. Thrusing up and down, up and down. Genitals swinging back and forth, in and out. Pump pump pump. Butts clenching. Groaning. Moaning.

Looking at the time and getting it all packed away back before mom comes home. Hours spent in a hormonal rush.

Derailed puberty turned into something secretive and encrusted with guilt. Something that has lasted for thirty years.

I approached women in junior high school in fear and lust. I found safe ways to be near them. I made them laugh. They wanted my company. I wanted theirs. But I could never give them my sex because...it was wrong. It was, of course, wrong. It HAD to be wrong. It was wrong for me to watch my mother's movies. Read her porno novels. It was wrong because if she caught me---ohhhhhh what would happen? She would kill me. Kill kill kill me. So no sex for me! But I want to! NO! No sex!

Then came the witness of Christ. What? A religion where sex before marriage is wrong? SIGN ME UP!!!!

At 16, I'm a soldier of Christ. I'm a witnessing soldier. I'm knocking on your door. Do you know the Lord? Is he your personal savior? What you like us to pray with you?

What happened to the sex? The books and the movies? Well, I guess I was a success at avoiding those particular sources. But there were so much more covert ways to look at sex. Movies. Other books. TV shows. SOAP OPERAS!! Hot and heavy. Oooooooh yeah. Shirtless men. Women in satin and lace.

And with each woman I dated as a Christian, especially with the first one, I never knew how I was supposed to change her in my mind from innocent love to sex partner. How was I supposed to do with her, and feel with her, the things I did and felt when I was sneaking behind mom's back and looking at her stuff? How was I supposed to do what was wrong with a Christian wife? Why would one day of white gowns and vow exchanges transform how dirty and ashamed I felt about what I did behind closed apartment doors?

And today when I watched "The Other Sister," I saw how it could've been. Should've been. Sex is about honesty. This is me naked in front of you. This is my belly. These are my toes. This is what I look like. This is what I like. I like how this feels. I want to do this. I want you to do this. I want you to like me too. I want to love you too. I want you to love me too.

Honesty. Innocence. Humanity.

Those two mentally retarded but emotionally open characters had it so right. Just love. Just do it.

The girl that I loved, when I was in Trenton. I love her still. I failed her because I couldn't touch her when she wanted touching. I couldn't kiss her as much and as long and as deeply as she wanted me to. I couldn't lay with her for fear. Fear. Fear and shame and fear. It was wrong, in my head. And she knew it. She knew I felt that way. She told me that she wanted me to stop talking about marriage because she was concerned that I wouldn't be able to be a husband to her the way she needed me to be. Massage her feet when she came home from a hard days' work. Be affectionate physically. I thought that she was worried that I might be gay, when actually she was worried that I was what I really am. Repressed and damaged.

And wow. She was right.

So then the rest of my life is going to be like this? Cry at the movies that portray lives and love that I want so badly, but am not brave enough to have?

Compared to this, having not enough money to pay rent is tiddlywinks.

Well, I gotta go to work again. See you in a month, I suppose.

Me at 3/19/2005 01:03:00 PM