Love is blind, or so they say,
and though they picture a blindfolded Cupid,
none seems more blind than the motherly one
—when she shrugs off her grown-up son’s
beating of his younger sister as nothing
but an innocent sibling quarrel.
Maybe that would have been true
when they were toddlers and one hit the other
with a plastic shovel while playing in the sandbox,
but not now, when he is a six-foot giant
bullying her because of her love
for another woman.
Everyone has a need to matter, even if only for a little while,
and sometimes we can be oddly specific,
like when you mentioned a certain Morris Minor
parked on the corner of King Street and Merkland Road
while asking if I would look at you again in the morning.
Then you turned off the bedside lamp, so I couldn’t see you
wondering if this would sound different in French or Pirahã.
I guess melancholia is the word, but only if neither of us
is bold enough to point out the fact that we are both twisting
the meaning of repentance. Perhaps it’s not so much regret
for what we’ve done, or even fear of what might happen to us
because of it, as an attempt to feel something, anything
—anything at all.
What are the odds of getting one double-yolk egg,
let alone a whole box? One in a thousand, I read,
and yet the latter happened to me just the other day.
You have to admit, I must be one lucky bastard
or an unlucky one, depending on the superstitions
we follow. Speaking of which, I have always wondered
why blue is considered better than red and white imposes
its supposed supremacy over black, brown, and yellow.
After all, in the game of colours, nothing lasts but the dire
shades of pale.
I adore Helena Bonham Carter, but for whatever reason, any time I see her, I picture a crazy cat lady. But this aside, I just watched Conversations with Other Women, and there is a one-liner there that I just love. It goes like this: a woman played by Bonham Carter says, “You’re just a dirty old pervert,” to which a man played by Aaron Eckhart replies, “Yes, I am. But I’m your dirty old pervert.” If only I had a chance to say something like that.
It’s been three years since I’ve been alone—longer if you consider the period in which my marriage fell apart—and I think I’ve got used to being on my own; I don’t need anybody in my solitary life anymore. At least that’s the mantra I kept telling myself every morning after waking up and every evening before going to bed. But today I met a woman who proved that I’ve been wrong all this time. Well, met is perhaps an overstatement, as she passed me in the grocery aisle as if I were nothing but a mere shadow on the floor, which isn’t much of a surprise considering she looked about half my age and was stunningly beautiful. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous, stopping at the sight of her as if I had turned into a pillar of salt, assuming, of course, that she even noticed me. Even more amazing was that she spoke my native language to the couples she met further down the aisle.
I have no idea who she was, and I’m sure I’ll never see her again. And even if so, what could I offer her? I’m a nobody—a bitter middle-aged man, ridiculously shy and awkward in social situations—who used to write poetry and now just pretends to have something to say in his journal until he gives it up, like everything else in his life. No wonder I’m not afraid of death—I’m already a ghost.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and although the overuse of this saying has reduced it to just another cliché, sometimes it still gets to the heart of the matter. As in the case of this image, generated by AI, which I play with from time to time to create illustrations for my texts. It is an expression of pure beauty. And I don’t just mean a beautiful woman painted by an artist. Both the picture he paints and the one of which he is the subject are wonderful compositions on many levels. The colour palette is also delightful. If only I could have it on the wall in my room.
In moments like these, I also regret that I don’t have artistic talent. Being able to create things this beautiful is a true gift. This is probably the only thing that, for me, comes close to religion (I mean faith, not an institution). That and music. I must admit that even though I grew up on the ambrosia of words and I also write myself, words have never made me feel an ecstasy equal to this one.
Immortality is just the cherry on top of the cake, because in order to achieve the desired state of happiness, people not only want to live forever but also be young and beautiful, which is what the entire fashion and cosmetics industries, allied with the pharmaceutical industry, prey on.
I can understand that people during the Renaissance put on thick layers of make-up and wore wigs to hide the effects of syphilis, but when I see modern women, especially very young, even teenagers, powdered so much that it is difficult to tell what their facial features are because they look as if they were covered with plaster like a building façade, then I have a reflex of disgust. The same is true with perfumes. In the times when hygiene was a problematic matter, perfumes probably made sense, but now using a lift with someone drenched in Chanel No. 5 or whatever it is they used borders on torture, especially for a person like myself, endowed with a sensitive sense of smell. And these are only aesthetic impressions, although I doubt that make-up is really neutral for skin. But what about things that actually hurt, like shoes on high heels, botulinum toxin injections, or steroids used by bodybuilders?
When I watched Mothering Sunday with Odessa Young some time ago, the sight of her unshaven legs bathed in sunlight was a picture of absolute beauty (the film takes place in the interwar period, and the director Eva Husson paid attention to realism in detail). I have never been able to understand why women shave their legs, armpits, and pubic hair, especially since I sometimes see undesirable results in the form of rashes. Men don’t do this. And if I were a woman, I would spare myself the argument that they do it for men, because personally, being just an average guy, I like hair, and I’m certainly not alone in this. And if it’s a matter of some stupid fashion, maybe it’s time to change it?
As I said earlier, what a disappointment it must have been to discover that someone else, that is, a woman, had suddenly appeared in the Garden of Eden. But I guess disappointment would be an understatement, to say the least. It probably looked more like a panic attack, triggering a state of emergency that has continued ever since. This required a solution, something fundamental that would safeguard the man’s position till hell freezes over—and hell it was; as once used, it quickly proved to be the best shackles and gag. And it doesn’t matter whether you call her Pandora, Eve, or Mary—no, not that one but Ms Wollstonecraft—your accusing finger says it all.
What a disappointment it must have been to discover that someone else had suddenly appeared, whose very existence undermined one’s uniqueness amongst the many creatures in the Garden of Eden. Imagine no longer being the only one of one’s kind—the king of utopia, the sole proprietor of the realm of plenty, ill-equipped to leave the bliss of la-la land. Imagine being a man.
hidden pilcrow 