She’s not out there. I’ve already abandoned the whole looking online for love notion. My girl from Ipanema is not there. I may have missed a couple of countries in Eastern Europe and maybe a small suburb of Tokyo, but no…. she’s not there.
Sigh.
Sooooo…. next step.
Next step.
Hm.
Thinking, thinking.
Neeeeext step.
Sigh. Meanwhile, three years earlier… time travel!
So I’ve decided to finally really be proactive about actually possibly meeting someone with whom I might have a real and solid relationship with. This time, I’m serious. Not just talking about thinking about it. And using my worst judgment, I’ve decided once more to dip into the sea of online love.
So I have begun.
My first disappointment while back at sea came in my complete inability to write a worthwhile profile that didn’t blather on about nothing at all. My second disappointment came when that profile actually attracted women to me, most of whom I probably would not date. I’m sure they’re lovely people and I would love to meet them (or maybe just do a phone interview with some of them for my ongoing studies of the human psyche), but I have absolutely nothing in common with them.
Honestly, I think at this point that I am so far away from the middle of that bell curve in just about every aspect of life that it’s going to take a god I don’t believe in to somehow put her in front of me. Because she’s going to have to be, uh, special. Not like olympics special. And not special special. Special in the sense that she would have to be…
I’m a lot of person to take. A really good female friend told me once that whoever dated me would have to be very patient. I mean, I’ve had a homeless girl leave me to go back to the streets! I kid. Although… true story. But not really.
No, I’m actually really fun. And people love me. I don’t know why she said that bit about being patient. I really should ask her what she meant by that.
All I know is that if it were to happen – if this woman were to magically appear in front of me – I would promise to try to put more faith in and pray to that god I don’t believe in than the Wood which I have certainly knocked on more in my life. That supernatural Wood on which I have laid my hopes and dreams and used to try to keep the badness away as I’ve said with pure conviction and a righteous rap of my knuckles, “Knock on Wood!”
(By the way, I was going to put a link there, certain there HAD to be some christian rapping on the internet, perhaps even an 80s group with a self-titled album called Righteous Rap. Let me just go ahead and say, don’t bother googling “righteous rap” unless you want to be embarrassed for humanity. It’s like the time I wanted to put a link to Gordon Lightfoot singing Sundown. Uncomfortable. I watched the live performance video of that song and all I could think was, “How have white people survived as long as we have?” But, oh my god, Sundown is phenomenal. And no, that’s not the video.)
Getting back to what I was saying, I really can’t make that promise about Wood. I mean, sometimes I’ll even use metal or sheetrock when I can’t find Wood, telling myself that it’s close enough or at least hope in my mind that it is. That’s not the kind of belief system a person can just shake overnight. It’s like saying, “OK, now I’m going to be Jewish.”
In any event, this episode in online dating should, at the very least, be entertaining. At the very most, two people will live happily ever after (with me being, obviously, one of the two people in that scenario.)
By the way, this is pretty much how my profile reads right now: complete rambling. I should probably think about outsourcing the writing for this, Cyrano de Bergerac-style. Any takers? Anyone at all?
Well, dear friends, I’ve come to a new place. I’ve decided that I am done being single. I am done living this monastic life. I have decided to open myself up to the possibility of love.
Now that I think I’ve had ample time to ponder life, love, and the human condition… now that I’ve spent enough time alone, enough time to come to this, my happy place… I am ready.
I am ready to find my Girl from Ipanema.
What would be most excellent would be if she were to simply come forward and identify herself. That would save us both soooo much time and trouble. The last time that I was dating, I searched long and hard for her. I picked every weed in the garden of love trying to find her. And, well, here we are.
So if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her. That would be awesome. Thanks.
(I’ve attached a dashing photo of me. It’s three years old, but, well, I don’t pose for photos much. And the ones that friends share of me on Facebook… I’m mostly intoxicated in those. So this is what you get.)
Remember how I mentioned that I had to break things off with my love? (And then there was some confusion from people close to me when they saw me with my love and I said, “No, no… I’m just preparing for the end.”)
Sigh. Yes, it's ending. It's just complicated. We're breaking up. We are. We're just not rushing it. I've been breaking myself away somewhat. We spend less time together. And just two nights ago, I went to the bar with her and I spent about a third of my night engaged with another. She didn't get jealous. I mean, how could she? So yes, I've been spending some of my time away from her and with... well... I've been smoking electronic cigarettes. I've been "vaping." Don't hate the playah, baby. Hate the game. It just has to be this way. On a historical note, an old friend of mine tried to turn me onto it last year. And when he did, I laughed at him. (One of those hearty, "Ho ho" laughs.) Then, over the holidays last December, I was in the mall and a really cute salesgirl pitched them to me. And I DID try one out while I stood there. She didn't quite lure me in then. (The cigarette, not the girl. I think I gave the girl my card.) But now? Now, the electronic cigarette has a certain appeal to me. It's actually a good transition. And there's a nice little site (local even, yay!) which I'm using to help me through this breakup: MiamiStyleMe.com. MiamiStyleMe.com is really rather cool for its electronic cigarette reviews. And there is some really helpful info there about using the electronic cigarette. For example, as a smoker, one of the things I’ve found is that there is no real finishing with the electronic cigarette. With a normal cigarette, you light it, you puff away, and then you put it out. Three steps. There’s only one with the electronic cigarette: you puff away. It’s an interesting experience, smoking these. Even as I type, I’m smoking one now. It’s so bizarre to be doing this. It’s metal and heavy. I can’t let it rest between my lips as I type; it’s too heavy. (I couldn’t the other night at the pool table with Ginger and friends at Lush, either.) But as the days go by, I’m growing more accustomed. I find myself picking it up more. I do have to say, though… this first brand of electronic cigarettes that I chose tastes like Log Cabin Syrup even though they are supposed to taste like Marlboros. Not an altogether pleasant experience, but again, I know it’s for the best. So yeah, I’m going with MiamiStyleMe.com to find my match. I’m making it my match.com for electronic cigarettes. I know the right one is out there for me. One that’s not so syrupy sweet. I need one that’s got a little appeal; that has a little spice to her. I need one with a little style but reaaaally smokes. Still talking about electronic cigarettes, I think. I’ll keep you posted.
I have a love in my life. It’s present tense, past tense, and sadly, it’s not future tense. Though I will always love her, we cannot be together any longer. I’m moving on for both of us. So that I can heal, and so that she may love another. And I know she will. And does.
I was at the drycleaners yesterday. Wait, not drycleaners. Doctor’s. I was at the doctor’s yesterday. That conglomerate out at the Veteran’s Administration Hospital. There were two residents attending, and a senior doctor that came in. We talked about my problems. And this woman, about my age and easily with more wisdom, says, “You have to quit.”
And so I have to quit you, dear cigarettes. Cigarillos. Smokes. My friend, my enemy. A large part of destruction in my self-destruction. Even as I type this farewell, I enjoy every last bit of you. God, how I love you.
We still have a little time together. My heart is yours even after goodbye… It’s for the best.
The sky was blue all day that day.
Catharsis is the emotional cleansing of the audience and/or characters in the play. In relation to drama it is an extreme change in emotion resulting from strong feelings of sorrow, fear, pity, or laughter; this result has been described as a purification or a purging of such emotions (whether those of the characters in the play or of the audience). More recently such terms as restoration, renewal, and revitalization have been used in relation to the effect on members of the audience.
Two Mondays ago, all twenty-four hours spun around the clock. Just like the day before and the day after. Somewhere during that twenty-four hours, though, my oldest son, Alec, took his life. He killed himself. This is the reality that’s day by day sinking more and more into me.
I want to tell you a brief and small story that is unimportant but relevant (well kind of crucial to what I’m getting at, I guess):
Just after 6pm on Monday, March 1st, 2010, a call was coming in on my cell. I looked at the name and it was the name of my ex-mother-in-law. I thought that peculiar because I never talk to her. I’m the devil in those parts and I thought we had an understanding.
Something was wrong.
I answer the call and it is my ex-wife.
“Scott?”
“Hello?”
“Scott? Alec is dead. He killed himself.”After this point, the conversation is lost to me. I know that I scream. I know that I scream. I know that every bit of pain that is possible in the world has turned into the sharpest of blades and shoved through my heart. I keep saying, “Tell me you’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”
I don’t want to believe. It is impossible to believe. It can’t be believed.
Two of my friends and neighbors are there*. I don’t know what’s going on. But I know I say, “There has to be good in this. There has to be good in this.”
Later that evening, and after saying goodbye to my bride of three days , I boarded a plane and flew northward to where my family was. My other son, his younger brother. My parents, his grandparents. My ex-wife, his mother. On the plane, I tell myself repeatedly, “Try to act normal, try to act normal. Just blend in. Don’t lose it.” The alcohol swirling around in my body kills only my motor skills, not any of my awareness, and certainly not any pain.
Flowering pink in the bushes surrounding the building where I live that morning.
I’ve thought about this. Not a lot, but probably about as much time as needs to be spent thinking about it: and I think I need to just say things here. I don’t have anywhere else to go. This little space where I can type is my comfort spot. It’s where I can run to and say things. And not say things. It’s my Catharsis. And I hate it. For you. I’m sorry. Although, “I’m sorry” is a phrase someone else recently told me I have to get out of my system.
I guess this is my introduction for my entry on Catharsis. I’m sorry. I just need to say things here.
And it’s made me think about some things. Whether or not I stay at ipanemic or eventually move to another website, I’ll definitely be restructuring, I believe. Photos have been daily life for me. Street, friends, models. I’m going to change the site to integrate things and run my life in front of you in a more obvious pattern. This site is my life, so I should present it more obviously than I do it. Or, that’s what feels right.
These are the seats on bus I rode at the airport, apparently. I had coffee with me that I must have purchased. I rode the bus from somewhere to somewhere.
This is all I have for now, really.
*I was thinking that freighbor would be a good word to use when identifying someone who is both friend and neighbor. But then I thought it sounded stupid. And the spelling looks retarded. (By the way, I can use the word retarded because I am partially if not fully retarded.)
Oh, additional note: Apparently, I can go from really sad to really happy now. Without warning in most cases. Hm. Sounds like a medical condition. I say this because happy me is just around the corner and ready to pop out! I’m really mellow me right now, though.
Final, final note: Mantras are good.