Fucking whatever

Today is one of those days I feel myself bubbling over with anger. Anger is the frustrated expression of helplessness. I’m floundering, trying things without result, attempting to go forward and never gaining traction. Many men will know this feeling. It’s in my shoulders and in my eyes, hooded and aggressive, seeking excuse to erupt. I imagine grabbing some wannabe by the throat and pressing him against the wall. Fortunately I’m much too civilised to act on these impulses, mostly anyway. The primitive is alluring, nonetheless.

No-one can understand how strange life is for me theses days. I try so many things. My brain is a mass of electrical activity. Plug me in and I could light up the house. I race around trying this and meeting them and calling so-and-so, putting on a front. I surprise myself by how well I manage it given the turmoil inside. I may feel a general inclination to break someone’s face, yet outwardly I’m an urbane and pleasant man of the world.

Yesterday I was out early. First up I was due to meet with a girl who wanted to meet with me. We met at a cafe in Maling Road on the other side of town from where I live now, but hardly any distance from where mum once lived. I know it well.

The woman is yet another yoga teacher. When my biography gets written there must be a chapter on yoga teachers: yoga teachers I have known. By my reckoning this is the fifth or sixth I have dallied with. Don’t know what that says about me, or them. Some of just been passing by, and others I’ve been intimate with in the biblical sense.

I’m reluctant to get involved with anyone, especially in my present circumstances. She was insistent though. She had set herself for me, had found – as I described a couple of weeks ago – something in me that had a powerful attraction for her. I liked something about her too.

Despite my situation I feel no less a desire for the opposite sex, and often times more. I have wondered at that occasionally. I’m coming near the end of my rope and I wonder if that is it. I’ve always been switched on, but recently its gone to another level. In the last days of Berlin the remaining Nazi’s got it on as if there was no tomorrow – which there wasn’t for most of them. I wonder if I am afflicted with the same sense of nihilism. Sex is another expression of self. It gets things out of you. You actively demonstrate an attitude or persona, sometimes gentle or romantic, sometimes urgent and hard. Lately I’m tending to the latter. It’s a much more acceptable expression of the aggression I wrote of before. Make love, not war is a phrase with more intelligence to it than you would think. They may seem opposites, but in personal affairs at least can be two sides of the same coin.

Anyway, I rocked up not thinking I was about to get down and dirty with this latest yoga teacher, but prepared to contemplate the future probability. We met with a smile and found a table. She was cute and lithe like you expect a yoga teacher to be. We sat, we ordered coffee, we had a chat. The conversation was good. It went unexpectedly deeply sometimes – despite my reticence there are parts of me openly raw these days. It was a successful meeting, yet I came away from it vaguely dissatisfied.

This sense of dissatisfaction is not unfamiliar to me. I wish it were different, but I find myself more formal at these meetings that have been formally arranged. I meet a girl at a bar or at a party and I’m a different man. I’m loose and provocative and flirtatious and generally don’t give a fuck. If it gets to a point where I figure I want to get in their pants I don’t care if they know it – and generally they’re quite happy knowing it. Intent can be a powerful intoxicant.

Put me in a situation like yesterday and I’m not that man. There are different circumstances, sure. It’s coffee at 9.30am rather than cocktails at midnight. Tha makes a difference. The real difference seems to be my unconscious mindset, however.

I’ve analysed this, as I do. I like to be in control, and generally am. Most women are happy to cede that control whether you like it or not. I admit there are times I like to be surprised, like to have control wrenched from me by a confident gal. But let’s presume that I’m in control say 90% of the time. I don’t think that varies much between circumstances, but there is a difference. In my mind I’ve labelled them active and passive control.

I meet a girl at a bar I fancy I’m generally in the moment, and probably looking no more than a few hours hence when we might be naked and tangled up in sheets. I’ve got nothing riding on it though. There’s a shrug of the shoulders in my attitude. I give a fuck, but not a huge one. I might still be directing traffic, leading the conversation as we slowly flirt over a bottle of wine maybe, but I think of it as being passive control. I’m there, I’m leading her to where I want things to get, but there are no promises, no weight or gravity, it happens, or it doesn’t.

It’s different in these formally contrived meetings because suddenly I feel some responsibility. It’s not just that she likes me, which brings pressure of its own. It’s the fact that I’ve gone out of my way to be there. This isn’t just happening, its been scheduled in the unspoken hope that boy meets girl and maybe somewhere along the line live happily ever after. I know that sounds big time, but lets face it, that’s the hope of 90% of people isn’t it? You might not expect it to happen, but you’re there and present and pulling the trigger in the hope that this time it might be.

In those circumstances I’m not the relaxed night-owl. I’m certainly not Hank Moody. Instead I’m the respectful, intelligent guy you’d happily introduce to your mum. I manage the conversation still. It’s me asking questions and following up, but in the general persona. It’s almost as if I forget sometimes that I’m there as the boy, and talk to her in much the same way I would to anyone, with frank curiosity. Sure, I stopped to imagine her naked body yesterday, but overall it’s more about the exchange of information than body fluids. I feel somehow false.

Didn’t matter. We’re meeting again. Not sure how wise that is, but whatever.

I went from meeting her to meet with a specialist accounting mob. I was looking for advice, maybe a miracle, and since the first consultation is free thought I’d give it a burl.

Not sure whether to characterise the outcome of that meeting as good news or bad news. The bad news is I guess that they can’t do anything for me. I was hoping for a silver bullet. If there is anything positive it’s that they think I’m doing everything right. And that’s what worries me. If this is doing things right then what’s left to me? They gave me a couple of small tips, but that was it. No miracle solution. Sob.

So here I am feeling angry. I’m pissed off. I’ve made mistakes, but they don’t equate to the direness of my situation. I feel this itch in my muscles and the weight in my fists because I have so little say in what’s become of me. I’ve been picked up by the tornado and at some point will be dumped in some very ugly place. I want to flex my useless muscles and make them count. I want to shout down the world, defy the destiny it has lined up for me. Fuck that, I’m not playing, and here’s a fucking broken nose for your trouble. It’s the last defiant shout before the blade drops.

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