Tuesday, August 6, 2013

No Reply...

HTML Goddess:

Don’t feed the bear…you’ll only encourage him. 

Sometimes I’m confused/amazed when women who obviously have a gift or talent for the written word, deign not to reply…many times the idea of a date is secondary to me (although my testosterone would beg to differ). It’s simply nice to make a connection.

Perhaps to satisfy my straining ego…was she entertained? Confused? Did she think I was clever? Sophomoric? Eccentric or crazy?

online dating I once wrote several hundred words to a woman who mentioned three different times in her profile that she was allergic to garlic. I described a potential first date at a restaurant, whereby I continually ordered clove-heavy plates like shrimp scampi and broccoli rabe, meanwhile adding asides and trivialities, like staining my polo shirt with pistachio spumoni…I closed by asking if she would have an osmotic reaction to the garlic I consumed if we were to kiss later on. It was intentionally ludicrous and over the top; she never replied. I had no real interest in her, but would’ve loved to be the proverbial fly on the wall when she read it…is that obtuse/insulting/insensitive of me?
It just begged for some sort of commentary.

Sacred geometry?
Alas (alack) I paid you not one compliment, which a proper gentleman would do. I could’ve commented on your full mouth and comely smile, or your raven hair (cliché alert), framing such a beautiful face. Perhaps mention the baubles (pearls?) which grace your neck in silverprint #8. I could’ve established more commonality—e.g., an aversion to the cold and Cleveland—or shared my interest concerning the energetic, pyramidal force of canned goods on Arthur Avenue.

I learned this lesson recently, when I wrote to a beautiful painter. I feigned shock, demanding to know why she chose to live in my Godless borough (painters usually live in Brooklyn), asking facetiously if she had a strange obsession with 99 cent stores and habichuelas. There was no reply…I revisited the tone and intent of my letter and wrote for a second time--something I’d never done before. Specifically, I apologized for my unbecoming familiarity, my curtness. I commented on her beauty and considerable talent (I did like the paintings she posted). Within an hour she replied, with some humorous comments and questions of her own. Funny, that…

Apart from my wife, I am not entirely divorced from other realities. Reasons to be Ian Dury/ignored:

--An aesthetic preference is to be expected; some women (perhaps many) wouldn’t find me attractive. I get that…
--For all the wherewithal and mental, allegorical or transcendental gymnastics, I am still lawfully married--bound to another, harking back to those fervent vows, oh so long ago…
--I am 50 fucking years old. I still have trouble accepting it--yet the number won’t back down or blink, no matter how much I threaten to beat the piss out of it. 50 remains there, staring at me with a bored, cold detachment. 50 possesses no overt malice—it simply adds lines to my weathered face at will, taking its pound of flesh literally and figuratively, resolutely plucking words, ideas and hair from a once nimble mind/scalp--much like drawing thin straws out of a flimsy cardboard box. I still leap and caper with spryness in my dreams, but the corporal reality lags further and further behind. Don’t get old, sez me mum…
--I have offspring/children/fledglings. They require attention/time, diligence, money and innumerable sacrifices.
graffiti--I live in the uncoolest borough, perhaps the unkindest cut of all.

However, I still ask you (rhetorically and on this single occasion—no need for a creep alert): are sparing words a distraction from your literary endeavor, so precious they cannot be spared or tossed before swine?

On another note/tangent/wafer-thin sphere of existence: why (oh, why) can I write streams of prose about the vagaries of life, love, aging and existence to a complete stranger, but when I turn my attention/antenna to gathering/collecting thoughts concerning a particular vein/theme, there are none to be found?

Although…what I’ve jotted/typed here is not totally without merit…perhaps Lucifer’s seal has been broken, the blockage has been cleared, the doors have reopened to the public (Hurry! These prices won’t last), the miasma/mental goop has melted away, and I can, indeed, write again. We shall see (said he, muttering and patting his pockets, for some unknown reason).

And there (here?) it is (‘tis?): Another ‘thing’ written and oddly finished, spit (spat?) into the cyber-wind, clinging/adhering/sticking to the digital underbelly of another's OKC epidermis--to be scraped, scrubbed and excised into the nether-hells of dubious anonymity.

Cheers, my dear Goddess…

Chuck Steak

No comments:

Post a Comment

What you think?