Wednesday, July 16, 2003

I don't believe in soul mates, since I haven't seen anything that has convinced me to believe in souls. But the idea of a soul mate is intriguing. Couldn't there be "evil" soul mates, like Bonnie and Clyde?

I stick with the Dalai Lama on this one, that longevity and happiness in a relationship (we'll call it love) are best brought about by a mutual commitment to growth. A good relationship should be fearless, flexible, and ready for anything, like a ninja, or perhaps an Olympic level gymnast.

I don't know many ninjas, or even gymnasts.

And I thank you for your insight, Dana. I needed it. It kept me in my musing state, which is much better for me mentally and physically than brooding is. (You see, proper brooding requires a very low level of light and I usually end up stubbing my toe or stepping on a CD case, neither of which has ever helped my mood.)


In other news, my good friend Brian Goldstein didn't die today, and that makes me very happy.
I was watering my lawn and drinking a Forty around 11:00 or so tonight talking to my neighbor Uzra when she asked me if I had a girlfriend. I was caught a bit off guard, but I managed to give her an honest answer.

Then she asked me why.

I wanted to just yell, "Why?! You should read my last post! All the girls I know are probably afraid to even hug me now!"

But of course I didn't yell that. It might have woken the other neighbors that weren't college students and I try to be a considerate neighbor.

I also didn't feel it necessary to point out that I was drinking while watering my lawn.

It was a very good question, though. There are so many people in the world, the country, the state, the city, the would think it would be possible to find at least one. Then again, humans are so complex I wouldn't be too surprised if there really weren't enough. Rascally creatures.

I read Kurt Vonnegut's "Slapstick" the other night and in the prologue he writes about how it is very natural for him to speak of life and not include love.

Then the next book I read (am reading) is the Dalai Lama's "The Art of Happiness." It was just a coincidence, but he also spoke of living without love.

I'm pretty sure that both were speaking of the romantic idea of the "Soul Mate," the one true love that is out there just waiting to be found. Apparently it sets you up for failure. But what do a master of contemporary literature and a spiritual leader of millions know anyway?

I'm just musing at the moment. I have a feeling that if I continue this could develop into full-blown brooding and nobody wants that.

Unless it, um, turns you on. Baby.

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

I wrote this after reading Lauren's journal. Now that's good reading!

First I thought: "Clever girl."

But I thought it the way that guy in Jurassic Park said it right after he realized he'd been ambushed and right before his face got bitten off.

My face is still intact, which is a good thing because I need my face to look foolish. But as I was saying, my first thought was "Clever girl." My second, third, and then strangely concurrent thoughts were these:

I understand not wanting to have sex. Well, no I don't. (Don't judge me yet.) I understand to wanting to have sex in the way that I understand not wanting to kiss or hug or shake hands. Physically, the greatest difference between these types of contact and actual sexual intercourse is the amount of fluids and possibly genetic material exchanged (I said don't judge me yet!) Hugging, kissing, shaking hands, and having sex are types of physical contact that appropriately express particular feelings and thoughts that are unique to the people interacting.

I like to hug. I hug everyone and everything. I am a hug-whore. Of course each hug is unique. If you come enter a room and I hug you it means I like you. If you enter a room and I run across the room elbowing whoever is in my way, it means I really like you. And if for some reason you enter a room and are covered from head-to-toe in dripping, stinking, freezing, mud and I still run across the room to hug you then I must be just about in love with you. But however you look at it, it's a physical expression of how I feel.

That is why I can't understand not wanting to hug. And accordingly, I can't understand not wanting to have sex.

Personally, I don't think sex is important. Neither are hugs or handshakes. It is possible to let others know that you care for them, enjoy their company, are glad to see them or sorry to see them go, want them to feel better, missed them; that you trust them. I mean, hell, you can just tell them. But physical contact is a much more eloquent way of doing so. I think so, anyway.

I have never had sex and gotten something out of it that wasn't there before. But on more than one occasion I have found the opposite to be true and I have been left with a feeling of hollowness, of trying to experience something, an emotion or a connection, that should have already been there. It is not a feeling I enjoy.

Would I love and live with somebody for the rest of my life even if for whatever reason we couldn't have sex?


...But I would still be able to hug her, right?

*In response to Beno's comment: A good point, but I realize I forgot to make mine. Sex is a reflection of your own values, what you think is important, and what you think will make you happy. Just like everything else people do.

Sunday, July 13, 2003

I was thinking of something funny the other night; That an injured, blinded, animal will lash out at everything around it.

Well, that isn't funny. What was that funny thing I was thinking of then?

Maybe it was one of my dreams. I enjoy dreaming, it is one of my hobbies. One dream I remember vividly...

I was sitting at home and the doorbell rings. I go to answer it, but no one is there. What is there is a large brown box. I check the address; it's to the right house. But I haven't ordered anything from anywhere! Out of curiosity I open the top flaps. Like an S&M Jack-in-the-Box, out springs this midget. She is clad in some kind of leather bikini thing. I recognize her from the Howard Stern show (which I had seen part of before I fell asleep that night.) She looks at me, smiling expectantly and I just gape at her, goggle-eyed.

There had to have been some mistake. I am certain I would have remembered ordering...her.

I check the return address and it is from a Fascinations-type store that actually isn't too far away from where I live. In a flash of genius, I decide to carry the box, midget and all, back to the store to clear up this whole mess. So I trot down the street carrying the box with Bridget (her real name) sticking out like some perverse Oscar the Grouch, just looking around and waving at people like she is really enjoying herself. I turn into the parking lot of the adult shop and step into a war zone.

There are protestors everywhere. Helicopters are buzzing overhead and every news channel from 6 to 60 is there with reporters on the scene to cover a mass protest by various groups against the newly-opened adult store. I nervously pick my way through the crowd towards the entrance of the place. As I am about to step inside, all the cameras zero in on me and a phalanx of microphones is shoved into my face. Bridget keeps smiling and waving. There is a droning silence. I blink furiously as I am blinded by bright lights. A bead of sweat trickles down my face. It seems an eon before I finally manage to utter weakly:

"Um, she isn't mine."

Then all Hell breaks loose.

A milliion questions erupt at me, the helicopters hover just overhead, papers and debris come out of nowhere and start flying about, flashbulbs start popping, and Bridget is still smiling and waving...

I hurl the box away from me and run.

The only sound I hear is an indignant shout from Bridget before I am far, far, away.

Funny, huh?

If anyone knows anything about interpreting dreams, I'm listening.