So after gathering that this was Angie’s new boyfriend (without trying to insinuate herein that Angie ‘goes through’ boyfriends) I figure I’d ask, and introduce myself maybe. So I asked him, turning to him, “Are you Angie’s boyfriend?” My manners were not in great health, but my wit was fine, and my manners never got me anywhere worth being anyways. He gave the right answer, hesitating briefly, then following through with an ‘if that’s what you like to call it, yes’. I said, “oh, good, sorry. I was trying to piece it all together here, as I heard that you weren’t a freshman, and your card doesn’t work to open the door, so you’re not a fine arts major. Anyway, hey, I’m Robert Kemeys.” and I reached out my hand for an introduction, and he reached his out and there was some guilt that seemed to be stuck to his hand, or something. There was a hesitation- maybe he’d masturbated. Maybe he’d eaten a bunch of cheetos. Maybe it was some alpha male, are we about to fight thing, I’m not sure, but when we clasped hands, it was all bone, and I wondered if I’d been off-putting. The handshake was vary much a formality, and once over, he and I tried to make do. He didn’t reply with his name, or with anything other than ‘hi’, so I had no idea what to call him, and he remained a symbol of an undergraduate place-holder boyfriend. This saddens me, but is not the worst. I disclosed to Angie that I think of him as a place-holder, before I’d met him, and now I’d met him, and we’re off to a questionable start. So I turn back to my table with my crafts on it, and begin to go back into studio mode, and try to tune out the conversation of my friends while I work, and he is watching me work bit. We’re all stuck in this space now where I don’t know his name, he’s got some other things on his mind, regarding the level of my friendship with Angie perhaps, or something like that, and I’m stuck working, which isn’t the worst thing, but it’s strange to be looked at while your’e doing it, without engagement, and he’s maintaining conversation with Angie, which as far as I can piece together, has to do with which airline he most frequently flies on when he travels to different music festivals. A good stopping point for me came sooner rather than later, and I left the two to have their time together as a couple, that they might get to the bottom of just which airline he has traveled by the most intercontinentally.
I went to the gym and fake-rowed my brains out, then took a shower, really seeing the shower at some point, having a conscious experience, and off to bed, where I read my phone for an hour. I don’t get many calls, or texts, or emails. I think of this song, there’s a line which sings ‘the phone, it rings no more’. and it has to do I imagine with the songwriter’s life, and how as a lifelong performer, he no longer gets hit up for gigs, but this back-story makes it all the more valuable to my retro-fitting, because I’m in a most strange spot, a spot which I knew I’d be in (that I’d decided upon years back, in my bedroom in tallahassee, after I’d sold my bed and car. My phone, it rings no more, but it’s not because I’m old and all of the gigs are done, or that no-one is interested in me. It’s because I have an addiction, and because I don’t participate in group-think. I have alienated myself. I’ll fuck, but I’ll come on your belly, kind of thing. I’m a (self-aware) fuckboy.
Any of my girl troubles stem from my self. Im a satyr, as one of my lovers put it. I thought she was a symbol for all evil. She, with a capital S. I thought that I’d be roped in to an eternity with her, and we’d participate in worldly gains, and reproduction, but alas at some point it was done, and we went our separate ways. I, turns out, chased some new tail out of town, and that pretty well sealed the deal. It’s funny, I don’t even think about my actions outside of an immediately justifiable context. Thus, spells are broken and morals reside in a flexible-if-not subjective space, as Kant and Neitszche would have liked it. So that makes me an untrustworthy person- the mark of Cain, as I recall what I read in Demian by Herman Hesse, which has to do with aligning to a most-high, most-ancient god (to be speculated by the reader as to whether it’s satan or not). It’s a great book, Demian. It’s like Faust, except the allegiance is ambiguous. So pan was a satyr- a man-beast, who would fornicate, and dance, and drink, and make music, and all around make things wonderful, pleasuring women and such- and that’s me. He would also run away into the dense foliage, to disappear indefinitely- and that’s me too.
Often I feel like a pariah.
Often I feel like a pariah.
SO this morning, I woke from a dream pertaining to cooperation it seems somehow. (I didn’t wake up with visuals to recall, but a kind of feeling lingered of being a part of something, or having a place at least. This doesn’t have to go against my statement about being a pariah). Here’s some of what I’ve written already today, transposed from a sketchpad:
There’s at least two ways I could write this.
This morning was cool because I woke up naturally. At first, I didn’t do anything about it. What a gift! To wake up with the sun! This I believe is holiness! But I rolled over and succumbed to sleep until my alarm woke meep. What a strange night, I thought, and a strange yesterday. I met a boyfriend to a friend of mine- a dear friend. I’d told her my only hesitation as to leaving Ringing would be leaving her, and that was true. I didn’t get the boyfriend’s name. I introduced myself with a handshake, somewhat of an artificial gesture after his entering the room (where Angie and I were working on illustration projects, the sculpture lab, where Angie was clocked into, as an employee) and plopped down next to Angie and began chatting her up. …. blah blah
SO the two ways I could write this are as either a self-involved asshole who recognizes that others are in their own self-involved narratives, or as a self-involved asshole who has got the blinders on (willingly/knowingly or not), writing frantically as to validate his self-importance.
I woke up this morning and after some time farting, and rolling around, and thinking of all the girls I’d loved before, I just kind of thought, ‘well, that’s one account of one life, in one perspective’, and that adds up to a very narrow picture indeed. So I recognize ( to my capability) that I’m just an asshole in a room thinking about the story that I’m in the middle of composing, about myself and how others are in relation to me, and I think at some point, of all the other assholes, in their rooms, farting and rolling around, (thanks Bukowski) and thinking about the world in relation to themselves, and that’s what got me out of bed this morning. There’s some thing I read yesterday too, that helped make this kind of a funny discovery, and that was some quote I read before I went to bed. It was something along the lines of: ‘The funny thing is, about this paradox, that only in acceptance of who I am, I am ready and able to change’.
