As a hope-filled, sweetly naive, good Catholic boy, I truly believed that my adult life would be like Anne Marie’s on That Girl
or Mary Richards on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, although, eventually I came to realize I would, more likely, be Rhoda Morgenstern.
Who knew that, instead, I would end up more Hazel
and Gay Uncle Knows Best?
Please, KILL ME. I mean, could I at least get The Courtship of Everyone’s Back-Up Father?
No. Not even that, when it comes to Bill Bixby roles, I am assigned only The Incredible Aged Repugnant Rejected Hulk.
I have not been having a good week (life) and so have been spending even more time than usual buried in books. In bed. In fact, I was invited out of my bed by someone and declined, citing my mood and my need to read upon which was remarked, “But people are more fun than books.” To which I said — only to myself and my books — “In what fucking world do you live?” But before I could say some nicer version of that, the next line, “You know, some people do other things in bed besides read.” Well, yes, I know, but the shape of that sentence pretty much guarantees that thus will never be the case for you and me. I replied, “Gotta go. I’m having a three-way with Elizabeth McCracken and Michael Cunningham.”
And I was (and am) reading Elizabeth McCracken’s brilliant Thunderstruck and Michael Cunningham’s so-far perfect The Snow Queen. They are both so completely and utterly and nearly beyond comprehension beautiful works of art, I am terrified to return to my heart and keyboard ever again to work on my novels. And, not for nothing, why the hell can’t I meet someone who thinks reading in bed IS FUN?
Thus far this morning I have spent an hour honing my serial-killer of family formicidae persona; spraying, sprinkling, squashing and baiting. This makes me a formicicidist, which is, I suppose, better — although certainly less rewarding than being a nepoticidist, ambicidist, hospiticidist, or parricidist, all of which I have seriously considered in the past week as possible alternatives to the meditations, medications, mendications and mediations which have failed spectacularly to cure me of my massive and yet somehow ever growing depression these past few decades.
I suppose we all knew that the “cide” at which I’d eventually and inevitably arrive would be “sui” oddly appropriate in that it is a homophone for a pig call, with which, apparently, my pleas to the universe for understanding, mercy, love, even a small fucking break, have been confused and so have been drawn to me, one after another sounder of swine. Yes, a group of wild pigs is indeed called a sounder, and, noisy as my pathetic life has been with all the oinking and butting and filth-leaving behind done by many of my herd, that, too, is wildly (and loudly) apt.
So, after the formiciding, I moved on to the cleaning of a pee-stained wood floor. One begins with a vinegar wash and scrubbing, then on to wood floor product application. In short, I’ve spent the morning on my knees. In fact, I am, as they say, reduced to being on my knees pretty much permanently, in a complete state of utter spiritual, emotional, metaphysical, existential supplication.
And tomorrow, I’ve to make a red velvet cake. Yet again. I have lost track of the number of recipes I have tried which have failed. Tomorrow I’ve another. In addition to which, I’ve a devils food with peanut butter icing cake to make. And two varieties of macaroni and cheese await making as well. This is a big family dinner weekend. Please, protect me from any sort of “ciding” during that. I must say, all the siding that has already been done by the family unit has pushed me closer to sui than ever in the past few years anyway. And, in fact, no matter how the cakes or mac and cheese turn out, there will be criticism from one or another quarter, after a lifetime dynamic of which, you’d think I’d just stop listening to it, but, alas. I HEAR IT.
What I miss, with all this hearing and noisiness and sorrow, is the silence I used to share with some people in my life; silences of complete understanding. There were silences filled with you knowing what I was thinking, and I knew what you were thinking, and we loved one another so much that words were not needed and betrayal not a possibility. Then you did what you did and made it into something about what I did and there is no taking back all that “did” – ever, for anyone, and the silences now, well, just silent. And for that, I think, there can never be real forgiveness. From anyone.
I have to go. The gym is calling. The latest picture of Neil Patrick Harris has destroyed me. Although my only ambition now is to die (and I have been having quite a lot of chest pain which once even snuck into my left arm, so, hope springs eternal – although, not for eternal life, that’s just bullshit) if I have to stay alive, I am determined to look as much like NPH as I can, which means I will never be able to ingest another carbohydrate nor leave the gym. Which is not good in this regretful, self-pitying, cidal mood in which I find myself; as I said earlier on Twitter having already suffered two rejections during the early (way-too-early) hours of this dreary — ant-filled — pee-stained floor — woke up at 5:30 in the morning kind of fucked up awful very bad day:
No carbs combined w/regret & suffered by an aging gay man in a gym locker room result in catastrophes even Cher can’t undo.