I can’t risk being exposed to media today; staying off-line, not turning on television or radio, hunkering down here at Absence Aerie where I am writing, reading, and ruminating in solitude and silence, not another human in view. But the problem is what do I do with those random thoughts I must spew, those musings I usually disgorge on Twitter? I suppose I could take the Twitter hint — that land where I have been muted by so many and never followed by a certain authoress who follows nearly everyone else I know — and shut the hell up, but, that wouldn’t be me, now would it? So, here they are . . .
8:30p.m. Tornado threat, passed without incident except it was raining so hard two (who shall remain nameless) pooped in the house. (You can safely assume I was not one of them.) And now, I am, I confess, watching Survivor. If you would like to know why I am alone, watch Survivor. Caleb Reynolds is much the kind of fellow with whom I often find myself tangled. Very beautiful, very not intellectual, someone who you’d think would have some homophobia but actually has none at all, in fact, is so open, loving, embracing, and interested in sharing love, I feel certain that given the right circumstance and enough time, we will be together. We. Will. Not. But I do it, again and again. Because I am very not smart.
4:30p.m. Venerable or hoary? Whory or concupiscent? Confused or confusing? Sitting by the fire, wrapped in a quilt, reading an English novelist’s latest, I go to the kitchen to make myself a cuppa, and there, my exiled phone flashes with a tornado warning. No, I will brook no such interruptions. There is heavy rain, maybe hail, snoring dogs, restless cat, and only forty pages left of Miss Hadley. I’m sipping this tea, here, just me, my reverie, this fantasy of English-cottage-damp-afternoon, detached from the real world, nothing and no one can part the mists and reach me, not even a funnel cloud can break through — not, no, when I have only forty pages left and am busy pretending I am an Englishman, a crotchety, maybe a little magical, scary-legend to the local children, codger in my cottage. Don’t interrupt my tea time.
2:30p.m. Miasmal mist / creeping obscuring foreboding / disappeared here / weaving ducking shrinking from those places where i know the mirrors wait / long have i been fading / the boundaries of self that held me once intact / have ceased to be / dematerialized evanesced evaporated dissipated dissolved faded escaped / i have vanished / at last / this empty space refusing to be filled by anyone else’s matter / ever again
11:30a.m. Grotesqueries, gorgeous in our inability to be other than seen as other, making our world behind the tents, beyond the tents in which you pay us to perform;
In the background there, having escaped from my without-a-net trapeze work scarred only by the crowd’s unknowing, ignorant applause, I hastened to find him who knew I was not a trick, no freak, he-another-me, and there he was, being held by that other, having been seduced by a lacy collar and the mystery of what was hidden beneath those damned, striped balloon-pants;
Woeful, there, I hoped and I imagined after I had gone, he would full of regret spend a life of weep and ache and missing me. Likely, rather, he threw my goodbye-accusations to the ground, stripped himself near bare, and allowed himself to be tickled by the feathered headdress of another striped lover. He never could resist the stripes and I, alas, dressed only in solids, all black and white and flat, dull landscape of my average body.
What could I do, once I knew I had no longer a home even in the sideshow, but ache forever over that other who’d let me open myself to him, pointed his gun at me, and the boom-flag I’d expected had instead been bullets of betrayal.
9:30a.m. Yes, that’s my underwear on the kitchen counter. I wish I had a delightfully erotic story to tell, some mad adventure with a marvelously young, gorgeous swain who stripped me with his teeth in a frenzy of lust and had me up against the sink, mad with passion. But, truth, the only frenzy of lust here at Absence Aerie has been my chomping on marvelously gorgeous foodstuffs and skipping trips to the gym, so my waist has expanded enough that my underwear feels tighter and who wants that when one could be free-balling in loose sweats while nestled under blanket, reading a stack of books one after another, snuggly on couch in front of fireplace, dogs cozied up on both sides and lap? Am I right? Of course I am, I know I am, because I have social media and my too-smart phone turned off so no one can fucking argue with me. So, last time I came out to the kitchen to get yet another snack, I thought for one second, “Damn, my waist already feels constricted, maybe I should just drink water or something?” Ha. Not likely. Instead, I did what any man who has recently been dumped by someone who didn’t even go out with him would do; I stripped off my sweats, passionately and lustfully removed my boxer briefs, and tossed them on the counter. (Don’t tell the C’s — I’ll disinfect before I depart.) OH MY — just realized I wrote last night about praying while in my boxers and used a stock photo in that post. Hmm, guess I’m boxers obsessed right now. Oh well, back to reading. And snacking.