The hungry feast on crumbs

Crumbs.

Portions of feelings.

Slivers of sentences.

A glance.

A foot touches mine.

A long hug.

A look and a smile.

A drunken kiss.

Crumbs of hope are how these are viewed. Crumbs of opportunity. I greedily gather them up, remember them, and cook them into something large enough to sustain me. My crumb castle, meticulously constructed from so many scraps of throw-away moments in the life of another. I feast on these.

A hungry person. A person who is alone. A person who is under-worked. A person with lots of self-flagellating free time. That's me. I greedily hold onto these crumbs and wish them into a reality that alienates me from the people who drop them, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps unconsciously. They're all I have in this crushingly lonely and empty place.

All I have are crumbs. I meticulously collect what positive remarks I receive, and arrange them like a series of comic books or baseball cards. How silly and veritably nonexistent these moments in my life are. An outsider may find this whole hobby unhealthy, blown out of proportion, pointless, potentially harmful.

These crumbs are all I have. I hunger for a touch, a look, a feeling, a word. I take what crumbling memories I have of these very things and form them into a convincing picture, a set of motives, a belief in something brighter. But like a religion, it's a matter of followership that legitimizes it. I follow my crumb formed beliefs alone. The person I worship doesn't exist as I've created her from the crumbs. Showing her my crumb cake alienates her. Clutching her hungry pushes her away. My hunger is a threat. My fantasies disturb. My desires go unanswered. My hunger continues. I place my crumb cake in the trash, but I cannot take myself to toss it out for good. That place is familiar. Those events are all too real. I want to believe the way I strung the crumbs together, but its my own coherent agenda. People rarely speak across time, asynchronously. I've created my Frankenstein out of these fleeting moments that confirm my own desires, my own affections, my own infatuations.

It's time to move on. It's time to move out. It's time to get out. It's time to redefine. It's time to quit curating the crumbs. They've damaged too much. They've brought me no tangible results. I have no victories. I have left overs, the tossed-aside products of what, I'm not sure. Perhaps I mistakenly read them as positive signs. It's all I could do. Forgetting them would be sacrificing too much.

They're just crumbs.

What to do, what to do

Sometimes your life presents opportunities to spread out, to switch gears, to move on, to leave town. I find myself at one of these points.

I killed my friendships. I actually succeeded this time. Make a pass at your friend's girlfriend. It worked for me. She still won't look at me. It's funny really. I don't know what to make of it all. I suggest that the feelings are more complex than merely 'creeped out' or 'suspicious.' I won't speculate. I'll just let it die like I wanted it to earlier this year.

Now that I've killed my friendship. I'll now seek out a new life, a life outside of this circle of friends. Can this be done? Why can't it be done? It's so bloody simple in this digital world to just change one's phone, move without the assistance of your friends, and simply 'disconnect.' So bloody simple.

I guess that's the problem. Friendship is needed from a psychosocial perspective. But the one thing that required companionship--raising kids, collecting food, building shelter--the labor-intensive conjunctive tasks that punctuated human settlement in the past, are all but taken care of by technologies and services.

I can rent a truck. I can hire a mover. I can sell off my items. I can do all of this myself. It's so damn easy. I can even move when they're not around. I can get everything moved to the frontroom, and move it into a rented truck at 9 am. I'd have the truck packed by the afternoon. Then I'd just ship out, drop the key in their slot, and be gone forever.

Forever is so subjective. Forever in this case would only last as long as our lives, that could be 30 years maybe 50. That's not really forever, and I really see no need in calling it forever.

This is what I've learned. Placing all your eggs in one basket creates a weakness. If all you care about are a couple of people, when those people don't invite you, don't call back, don't answer the phone, don't answer the door, ignore your voice, ignore your presence, then your world falls apart. This dissolution of reality may only be temporary, but it is a devastating consequence. It hurts. And given the nature of how you place all your stake in these close friends it artificially creates a crisis anytime this kind of activity occurs. The simpler you're ignored, the more it hurts. You don't exist. Alternately, a verbal assault, threats of violence, and arguing in general would substantiate the connections between you and these friends. I guess I wanted to see how real this friendship was. It was real. It is real. And I have a choice about whether or not I want to repair this friendship, if it's even broken.

I've apologized. I've spoken my mind. Hell, I shared my infatuations with my friend first. He may have been building a case to support his suspicions, and I helped to confirm those suspicions. That's all I have done. And now I have a choice to just walk away, every moment I stay away I confirm an absent answer to the current status of our friendship. Hell, for the first three weeks I pretended like I didn't know what I did, and I did not know what I did. Now that I do, my own suspicions about what I did were confirmed. That's all.

Strange how when you force a new meaning on a friendship it requires violence. Forcing meaning requires a violent force, be it symbolic or physical. In this case, touching a body was the physical violence. Saying that I 'want to make a connection' is the symbolic component. Looking at these from afar, they're pretty weak.

How weak can it be? It's in the absence of unambiguous meaning that we fill in with suspicions and anxieties. It's a fun exercise really. I find destroying or at least testing boundaries demonstrates how this process works. Funny that I find some activities a violation of my space, and my friends don't see this. Now that I repaid the favor in some way, they're the ones who are upset. It's a futile exercise if what is more important is the relationship.

There's no need to say goodbye. There's no need to even apologize any more. There's no need to address what occurred. There's no need to talk about it. I'd rather leave that moment in our collective past some kind of redacted document. Its contours can and should be remembered like a drunken party or a sedated surgery. An absent presence is felt but it cannot be remembered. I'll leave it at that.

Herein lies the rub. Yes, there is a wrinkle in my plan. I may run into these people. I could still be cordial. Why would I then keep them from knowing where I live? It's a strange situation. Yes, there's no need to leave them out of my life. I just need to move away. That's all I need to do, move away. So simple. I don't have to disconnect my phone or hide my address. I'll just leave, move out, reestablish myself in some other part of the city. That's a simple procedure. That's a simple exercise in getting some aspect of my life back. I'd rather not know my neighbors. I'd rather not know with whom I share my walls. At least I'd rather not care what goes on behind their walls and they the same for me.

"Your music was so loud." That's what my friend said when I went out with his girlfriend and she wanted to hang out in my apartment for a bit. I played some music and we shared a few beers. Normally, he says that my music doesn't bother him. Then it did. I suspect that he cannot trust me. I suspect that he cannot trust his girlfriend. Her ability to compartmentalize to cordon her behavior to select people should raise suspicion. She won't give him all of her. In one year they will have been common-law married. Eight years is all it takes. She knows this, and she's trying hard to break out of his orbit and do something with her life. I don't blame her. Surely, I did something to disrupt her own sense of where I stand in her orbit of relations. She won't look at me. Well she will, but she doesn't initiate an interaction with eye contact. She also won't tell me "no." Why can't she say "no?" It's a monosyllabic word that is probably one of the first words that I learned. Hell, we all learned this word probably first. "No" is such an important word. I touch her, and she can say "no." I make her feel uncomfortable, and she can say "no." If she wants me to not do something all she has to do is say "no." That's so bloody simple. I know "no." I respond to "no." I won't resent her "no." Yet she won't say "no." Hell, he won't say "no" either. "No" must cause discomfort. It's odd, yes. I made her feel uncomfortable.

Discomfort can be an odd sensation. I suggest that her discomfort stems from a reevaluation of our relationship. I may have shattered some of her trust. I wasn't the only one flirting. Damn it, I know this to be true. I crossed some line that never was mentioned. She trusted me. Perhaps she doesn't trust me anymore. That's fine. I'd rather be too complex to predict and control. That's my new joke. "Baby, I'm so complex that I'm confused."

I like booze damn it. I love booze. I can almost drink a full bottle of vodka. What kind of achievement is that? I guess part of it is a Chinasky aesthetic. Chinasky is Charles Bukowski's own persona in his novels. He boozes, writes, submits his work, occasionally makes money from his work, and shares his earnings via booze with his drinking friends. These friends are a motley crew of drunks. He of course has a rough-around-the-edges lady. Hell, I have no drinking friends. I drink and stare at a computer screen, cheer on movies, and play video games. I hardly write. I need to do that more. I need to diary less and create more. I suppose this is a fitting proxy for my writing. I'll grant it that. I do try to tailor this shit as best I can.

To summarize, all that I have done in wishing away my friends and their encroaching lives is to push back. I finally pushed too hard. I hardly think that I destroyed anything permanently, but now is a good time for me to make a strong decision. I win if I move out. They get more space. I get my sanity back at least temporarily. I'll probably go crazy once again. Paranoia and delusions are my nest material. I'll prick my finger on something sharp in my nest soon enough. Until then all I can do is make the first move.

When you let it out

When you let everyone know how you feel you realize just how little others share with you their feelings.

When you tell your friend about your infatuations, your jealousies, and claim these as the source of your odd behavior you receive something different.

You get the dossier. His dossier on you. He's been counting and keeping track of all the things you've done. He listens from afar. He fills in the blanks. He confirms that he's just as jealous and or scared of losing something as you. But he won't tell you that. This is another part of this perceptual shell game where we try to match behavior to intention. I've revealed where I'm hiding my pea, why didn't he?

He wanted to win the game. I let him win. These kinds of odd shows of force over who's perceptive scheme wins out is all that we're fighting about. He has an ally, and for that he has more to lose. I don't. I've lost some trust and some closeness. I've perhaps lost the one and only source of a woman's compliments, the one and only person who would tell me whether or not I looked good, the only person who gave me any direction in how to dress and what to do. Currently all of that is on hold. She won't make eye contact with me.

I don't call that a silent victory. She's mad at me. My only victory in this sense is knowing that I can have an effect on another person. It's not like she didn't have a similar effect upon me. I waited and waited for a compliment that would confirm my fantasy world, my infatuation. When she told me that she loved me and described it as an inevitable conclusion I heard all that I needed to hear. I paired that with a hint at revenge sex from a night several months prior, and considered my chances good.

But my advances were received with strange behavior. She didn't tell me that I made her uncomfortable, and I didn't want to do that anyway. I just wanted to act out my feelings. I apparently touched her, something I didn't remember doing. My friend told me this. He was receiving his information from her. She never said a word that I recall, which would have indicated that she felt uncomfortable or that she didn't want me doing what I did.

It's all so odd. When you have a few friends at the center of your life, any change you make gets placed in relation with these people. Every move unseats a previous orbit. Every action entails some consequence.

And now I sit alone, not wanting to lash out in hate like I did before. Nevertheless, I sit alone once again. Once again I am all alone. The pitter patter of feet overhead, I sit alone and listen. I live vicariously through this movement of feet, the muffled voices, and I wish that my world could be full enough to push all that sound out.

I let everyone know where I stand, and I'm met with a confirmation that they've done similar work without me. They have their dossiers ready to read me a list of offenses against them and against their girlfriends. I stand against my own regret, looking back upon what I did, not even knowing all that I did. But it all surfaces the same whether I'm drunk or whether I'm just getting started. Some call liquor a social lubricant. It forces the truth out in messy ways. The truth passes through this drunken sieve and comes out messy and scatters about the place. You're still left to divine it, to sort through the mess, and make sense of it. A fist would be clearer message one may think. It's not.

So I sit alone, and this is the key concern. I live alone. I hardly work. I hardly live. I hardly experience. I hardly breathe. I hardly eat. I hardly try. I take what little scraps of hope, what tidbits of love, what crumbs of sense, and I make that into my life. It's not a noble profession. It's not a livable situation. It's not a reality that others will confirm or feel comfortable living within. I sit alone. I wish alone. I writhe about alone, wishing to be with another. I've yet to find someone that I'd put within the center of my life. I sit alone out of habit. I would have to learn how to sit with others. And I have none that will sit with me, that will be patient, that will push back when I lash out, that will tell me that my raves and rants aren't all that real or true or that tough. I need someone to dispel my magic, to bring me back to a world of drink cups, toasters, and television. Living on some precipice alone isn't an artful direction nor is it a wise choice for how to be in the world.

I walk along a path alone. I seek out the fantasy world that I've built for myself. I seek out a life alone because a life with others would puncture my little bubble of fantasy, magic, and mystery. Perhaps I need that. I do need it. Some day, I tell myself. Some day I will reach out my hand and touch another hand. I will feel the warmth. I will find a home.