10.31.08
Hallowe’en: The Night He…Didn’t Come Home, Actually (2008 Update #52 & Final.)
Hi. Spooky day, and almost everybody in America is paranoid — so I request that inferences to comments be kept to a minimum. Writing is what I do because I mostly don’t have anything else to do, and I think yoga is stupid.
So it goes.
Warning to impressionable old people (youths, these days, have seen and done everything so many times it would make your head spin): This posting contains topics dealing with both Siblings and Sexuality — but I shall endeavour to keep them far enough apart that any of those pesky inferences don’t get made.
What the hey — let’s do the Sexuality first: Only ten minutes ago, I was startled by some extremely eerie orgasmic moaning, courtesy of one of my female neighbours. I won’t lie to you: I like female orgasmic moaning quite a lot — see, “ladies,” I hope it’s not too much of a stretch for me to speak for all straight adult male humans for a moment, simply to say that WE LIKE IT WHEN YOU’RE HAPPY AND FEEL GOOD. Of course, somebody else’s partner’s female orgasmic moaning isn’t really any of my business — but, frankly, when it comes (pun vaguely intended) blasting through my windows in the middle of the night, it kinda is.
This was a weird one, though — long, high, heaving sounds; at first I thought it was one of those misleading echoes of the night — such as a cat catching a surprise fuck or a baby crying. But it was definitely adult female orgasmic moaning. Mainly I’m surprised anybody is still awake. (Most people around here work hard, play hard, sleep hard — and think extremely softly.)
Hey — digression, but — I wonder why, in English, “hardly” is not the adverb form of “hard” (which is, simply, “hard”). We, for instance, hump softly — but we pump hard. Odd.
The funnier expulsion of random female orgasmic energy came (pun very intended; if also stupid) earlier — it was perhaps 10:30 pm, and I was walking back, and THE LOUDEST WOMAN-CUMMING SOUNDS I’VE EVER HEARD IN PUBLIC issued forth (pun intended) to bang (pun intended) upon those nocturnal sugar walls (oh, jesus).
I studied sound in college, and I’m pretty good at identifying its subtleties. The moans earlier this evening were definitely genuine — and pitched just this side of screaming. It was very impressive — I mean, it must have carried over an entire city block — plus it was very amusing. This woman — whoever she was — clearly wanted the whole world to share in her experience.
I offered up a little “golf-clap,” and kept walking.
(It was really fucking funny, though [pun...well, whatever].)
This causes me to wonder: For the past several years, I have been inhabiting a place where such vital Life-qualities as Love, Romance, Sweetness and even Gentleness are essentially unknown, unperceived. Sexual passion — it’s cheap and easy — but I’ve hardly had to tell anybody to “get a room” in quite some “time,” too. Which brings forth the wonderment:
Why now?
Why are these local women crying out like hyaenas (”hyaenae”?) in heat? (Really: This is not me eavesdropping; this is like leaf-blower LOUD.)
I noticed, looking up at the sky today, that the firmament was severely criss-crossed with “jet-streams” — you know, those bizarre white lines of inexplicable “cloud” that don’t seem to have been emitted by conventional aeroplanes — but there they are, all the same. I am very much not a paranoiac — in fact, if there’s a monster, I’d rather just have it come after me and do its business than sit around worrying about it — however, paranoiacs believe that these “jet-streams” (or whatever they call them) have something to do with…government mind-control schemes of the populace, or some kind of chemically-induced psychological experimentation, or whatever (I’d say TV is much, much, much worse — but nobody would listen; nobody ever does).
If you’re a sharp little tool, you probably saw this coming, but: I wonder if today’s nerve-gases sprayed through the atmosphere had any effect on…making local women particularly loud whilst in the throes.
Hm.
Don’t stop, though, “ladies” — come/cum all day long, if you want. I mean, if it’s a healing process for you, then go for it. (Men who would complain would probably all fit inside one yoga studio.)
Enough with the Sexuality, anyway; I just found tonight’s outbursts entertaining.
*
What else? Well, alas, today I received the news that I will not have the option of moving into a friend’s remote outpost for the winter. He doesn’t think it would be a good idea. It’s his choice, so I honour it. I suspect that there’s some projection afoot, though — probably very few people (especially in hyper-ADD America) could comprehend how pleasurable it would be for me to live someplace quiet, cold and cozy for a few months — and if alone, then alone (having experienced such settings before, I can tell you in confidence that the feeling is far less lonely than being mostly on one’s own in a city overflowing with insane freaks).
Oh, well. I listened to his case, stated my own, and accepted his choice. The one thing I definitely do not wish to do is to cause him (or anyone else) to worry about my wellbeing whilst abiding under their bonus roof.
The thing is, though — that energy was all set to pop. Now it’s stymied. Recent potential employers have gone mute on me, and friends here are up to the usual “MEEE!!! MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!” bullshit — and I figure, although I like L.A. well enough as an Entertainment Machine, that these past thirteen and a half years have added up to more than enough of a chapter of discontentment for me. (Sometimes it’s mild, sometimes ferocious — but it’s never gone, never fully dissipated.)
This leads me to think of Ian Fleming’s story, “Quantum of Solace” — and how, ironically (since I don’t care about the forthcoming movie), I may consider it the best (popular) thing he ever wrote. I’m sure that the movie has little or nothing to do with the Fleming’s concept (a friend saw it recently, and offered comments), but the story is actually an anti-Bond non-adventure. Bond spends almost the entirety of the piece sitting in a quiet room, drinking brandy. The story proper concerns an older authority figure describing (to a somewhat cheeky Bond) the horrors of emotional abuse in a relationship he intimately observed — which, in itself, would make for a fascinating study of human nature — but Fleming one-ups the expectations (mine, anyway) by leading off with the cliché of a lying whore with a heart of shit — but then describing the punishments from her husband, whose potential for icy, measured vengeance was never apparent until the femme-creep used and abused him. He concludes with the notion that the bitch was essentially a slow-burning spark for igniting the soul-garbage within the man, mostly placed there by his parents, long before she toyed with, and ruined, him. Quite a fascinating little portrait, really — plus Fleming allows the bitch, following some protracted punishment, to get off, get away, start anew, and play “happy” for (presumably) the remainder of her days — while Bond heads off to his next “exciting” assignment feeling rather sick and empty inside. It’s pretty cool. I’m sure it’s loads better than the movie.
I mention it, however, because — although I’ll bet “Quantum of Solace” is used extremely stupidly for the movie, as the title and theme of the story, it’s a rather masterful term, meaning, approximately: “Measure of Comfort”. As in: Hurt is hurt — people hurt each other constantly, usually accidentally — at worst (generally) due to some glitch which, over time, they may be able, in shared company, to repair. But total disregard — this is the stuff of true Horror. Think about it: That person really does not care whether you live or die — or suffer on and on and on.
That, friends, is Scary.
I don’t want to climb out too far on the limb of this Hallowe’en Tree (tip of hat to Bradbury) — because I do have some friends, and I can perceive Beauty (many, by the look of this world, cannot), and for some reason I’m actually pretty good at carrying on, whether or not anybody else in the whole world cares in the slightest. (Not the best of inspirations — not an inspiration at all, really — but it does keep me going.)
Despite managing reasonably well in a place literally crawling with insane people (no mean feat), I do feel a pang at the notion of this “Quantum of Solace” — here, let me describe it, just a bit:
- Siblings very obviously do not care whether I live or die; they have very, very, very coldly disregarded me for years on end (and now, I sincerely wish I could get a refund on all the kindness, energy and sheer travel I put forth to be loving and supportive toward them — a waste!)
- “Father” (he survived the surgery, incidentally; I’m not sure I care) brought such hideousness down on me, exactly when I finally started getting a career together — and, nine years later, he’s still a cold, bitter, rotten man. When I watch people adoringly pick up their dogs’ shit every day, it pummels me: My “father” has illustrated beyond question that he has no interest, whatsoever, in being intelligent, supportive or even vaguely kind toward me. These people treat their dog’s excrement with more care than my “father” has ever offered me.
Talk about not getting one’s “Quantum of Solace”!
I have also been physically attacked by people who, when an apology was demanded of them, chose to sneer and make more threats. I have been viciously, coldly terminated by a company to which I gave my heart and soul for several years of sleepless nights and apeshit-crazy days. (Hints: Don’t ever expect your “Quantum of Solace” from alcoholics, rednecks, or both.) Some of my friends are dead and gone, and others are just gone, but in either case we’ll never speak together again (no Solace there). And I have certainly paid much more than my share of dues toward “the fair sex” — in terms of dinner, travel, assistance, whatever — only to learn that the returning gesture is not a hug, not a kiss, and certainly not a courteous and wonderful relationship — it is, instead, the emotional equivalent of catching diarrhea in the face, as she’s turning to leave.
Is it all L.A.? I’m not sure.
I’m stinging a little bit, tonight, actually, because I invited a married friend (and her husband) to the Ed Wood thing next week — and instead of being even vaguely supportive (”Hey, we’d love to attend! — And if we can’t, I hope it goes well!”) — instead I got the sort of, “I’m not interested, I don’t like that, I don’t care” spiel that has come to be the hallmark of L.A. communication.
It’s cold; it’s cold. (And yet the air is hot. It sucks.)
I cajole myself back to some reasonable level of mirth by noting: All this female friend seems to care about is stupid-ass “bad-boy” rock and, of course, having anal-tongue-sex with her dog.
When I think of it that way, I don’t feel so bad.
This is a city of opportunists — heck, a whole nation of ‘em. (”Gimme what I want, right now — and then fuck off!”)
Don’t count on much — the programming is faulty. Have a laugh, move on. If somebody is about to get hit by a train, at least find a fallen branch to shove them off the tracks. Do what is required of you. But don’t count on consistency, and don’t count on faith. Don’t count on that Quantum of Solace.
I’m sorry if this reads as hideously depressing — but for me the reflection is mainly clinical: It is the lion’s share of my actual experience. Most people I know either have truly hideous anger-management issues (which make them behave like monkeys on meth), or they’re so far up their own assholes in terms of ego that pleasant, easygoing conversation is out of the question (”MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”), or everything turns to money (which is saddest of all). I keep my chin up for the populace at large (which is far from being an inspiring group, in this place) — but the actual paradigms I have been experiencing have been, primarily, discouraging and depressing.
Why is this?
I wonder.
Related side-note: I do realise that a little kindness goes a long way. In general, I tend to be kind to strangers — particularly service workers — and these tiny gestures of humanity (I make, for instance, eye contact) seem (or so it seems to me) to be appreciated by the recipient. I hope they are. I don’t presently have much to give in the way of fiscal or material assets — but I can be nice to people. In an almost entirely fucked system (which is very likely to get worse — no matter which VP shortly thereafter takes over the Office), surely this has some value.
The question which nags me, however, is: Does all this “random kindness” really make any difference — and, being wholly selfish for a moment, does it get me any closer to having anything resembling a Life?
Thirteen and a half years (for just this particular chapter): I’d say it’s starting to look mostly like: Not.
The one lesson I have learnt is not to be a shithead-magnet anymore. Here’s the cure: “Oh, you’re a shithead? G’bye!”
*
And so I turn to the Sibling problem. I don’t know what cruel joker in the other dimension saw fit to saddle me with two older sisters who both suck — but man, did I ever get a raw deal in this department. This is open to debate — but I’d win for sure. I’m an uncle five times — and I showed up for everything I could (this was usually not in any way productive for me personally). Ask a teeny little favour of my sisters, though, and — you guessed it:
You don’t even get the Quantum of Solace.
Today is a kind of anniversary — the sort of day which tells me what I need to know.
One year ago — one full calendar Earth-year ago — I asked, during an otherwise pleasant conversation I instigated, for one of my sisters to please call me back for three minutes within the next couple of days — that I might hear from her the best window for holiday travel, so I could book my flights and make my plans.
It is now exactly one year later. I have heard nothing. Not a word. Zero.
The concept of a Telephone, apparently, has become Deeply Mysterious, even Daunting!
It’s odd: A little bit — a little bit, and I’ll do a lot in return. And I’m no martyr — I loathe suffering, and refuse to make any sort of case of it.
But total and utter coldness and abandonment? Constant insult to injury?
Fuck you, “family.” Fuck you up your stupid monkey asses.
It’s sickening.
I’ll remain honest, fair and true until I either get a Life or have to drown myself — but I’m not even going to humour my “family” anymore. Fuck them up their stupid monkey asses.
A whole year!
*
Ick.
Oh — speaking of that, the fish died. It was a while ago. It wasn’t technically “ick” — apparently one of them just got old, and the other responded by getting so lonely in his absence that she went belly-up.
I’d like to have rabbits again — they’re much better than dogs or cats (I have decided that dogs and cats are for insane people — you know, people who desperately wish to project human personalities onto toadying, deformed predators. Rabbits allow no such farces; they just are what they are; I like that.)
Incidentally — lest this provoke the worry of Americans for whom dogs and cats constitute an unspoken religion — I don’t dislike dogs or cats. I tend to be nice to them unless they’re patently horrible. I just think that people who are dependent upon them are pathetic.
Hm.
*
Well, anyway, Happy Hallowe’en.
Bleh.
~G
” — and then…
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