Torture

September 15, 2009

I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.

Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.

No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.

His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?

No, no, no!

This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.

Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.

And craving more. Words.

A year and a half after promising to emerge from unintentional and occasional but still neglectful hiding, followed by sudden, self-imposed and seemingly permanent blog exile, I appear to have returned. What can it mean? Why would la bohémienne have been satisfied to navel gaze in solitude all of this time, and then, without warning (to herself or to others), feel a need to share all that lint with all and sundry once more?

There is only one possible explanation.

I crave attention. Your attention. The need has never fully disappeared. It was there, lurking barely beneath the surface, waiting to emerge when my attention was elsewhere. Angst doesn’t go away, not really. It just hides, and attacks when defenses are low. And now, I feel as vulnerable to that attack as I have in many months.

If I must be honest (must I?), I secretly enjoy that vulnerability. It seems to me that every grand and intense experience occurs when I feel least able to handle the consequences. That seems a fair trade-off to a self-identified drama queen.

So here I am, ready to verbally wring my hands and wail my confusion in (anonymous) public once more. I do hope that you will accept this implied apology. I know that I’ve taken you for granted, and I really don’t deserve a second chance. I know you, though, and your legendary generosity. If you take me back, believe me, read me, tell me you love me, I promise to be faithful to you, only you, only all of you.

Or at least occasionally amuse you with my not-so-quiet desperation.

Automated

December 16, 2007

This post is being written by an automated blogging device.

If Bohémienne had any integrity as a blogger, she would have updated this so-called blog many days ago. Since that is clearly not the case, the Automated Blogging System (ABS) has been activated. This blog will contain all of the required and habitual elements:

1) Navel-gazing

I am a most interesting blogger. I have no doubt that you are fascinated by each and every one of my scintillating words. Today I choose to pass along the following tidbit of wisdom — try not to take on too much over the Christmas season, or you may, in fact, run out of time to write. 

2) Angst

Do you still love me, even though I haven’t been posting regularly? Have you decided to abandon me as a lost cause? Please… I really can’t get by without your attention. I promise to do better. Don’t leave me.

3) Self-deprecation

Really, it isn’t as though anything I write is worth your time and effort. I’m awfully ordinary. I’m more than grateful for your attention, and I take it with a grain of salt. Truly, my talent isn’t so great. No, no, stop it. I blush.

If Bohémienne decides to get off of her ass and post again soon, this ABS will not need to be activated again. In the meantime, your patience is appreciated.

ABS

Combustion

November 7, 2007

Dear You,

I understand through the word on the street (okay, not the street, more like word on the screen) that you have a choice to make. Can’t be easy for you. Oh! It is? Ah, yes, now I see. So right. Really, it’s black and white. No — red and white. Let’s look at the options.

White first. Bright, pure, smooth, easy. Yes, easy. The clean light surface of the water. Barely a ripple is visible. Make this choice for peace, for quiet. Beneath the surface? Nothing. Nothing is living there. Why would you want to see beneath when the surface is so nice, so calm, so cool; you can see your own visage reflected there. You’ll never need another mirror — just look and have your anxieties, your fears, your nervousness relieved and extinguished.

The other choice won’t work for you. Red is deep, and hot, and full of life and vitality. It would disturb your equanimity, such a bad idea. You might become overheated, overexcited. You would risk great despair and deception. Yes, you would also earn the opportunity for great joy and passion. Overall, though, such extremes will just worry you. Those flashes of blinding light, screaming chaos… they are not for you. You need a pillowed landing, not fire, and lust, and, heaven forbid, depth.

There is only one possibility for you, for You. Opt for ease and security. Cruise to the end in safety and security. Really. It’s your only choice. If I were you, or like you, I would probably do the same. Probably. The chance at extraordinary joy is never worth the risk of bursting into flame. Is it?

Best wishes and good luck.

B

Cut & Paste

October 22, 2007

The insides of my mind are covered in wallpaper paste, with bits of torn up Deep Thoughts half glue-submerged and half blowing in the draught. I find a bit that says:

“you are totally exposed, open, pliant… the natural instinct is to protect you, cover you, shelter you”

which logically must go with:

“Yes … I remember trying to get a reaction out of you. You were very disciplined, and I felt like seeing where that might break down.”

but apparently doesn’t, because it can be summed up with:

“I think he gets protective of me because he thinks my vulnerability shouldn’t be exposed. I think other people want to try to expose it”.

which rather kills the discussion dead. Trawling through reasons why some people would want to break me down and others want to preserve my strength doesn’t really yield up anything particularly edifying about anyone much, so I end up abandoning that train of thought.

Then stuck to the glue I find a whole lot of prickly bits about fathers, the lack of, and Alpha Males, and things my daughter has to say about the kind of man she’s looking for (how come it took her 20 years less than it took me?). I could write a whole plethora of posts, I think happily, but they elude me.

I’m sucked into a black hole of advice-giving, which leads me to wonder why it is that every single man I’m involved with appears to have some inability to resist dingbats. Or is it me? No, apparently not: I’m the dingbat antidote, I’m told. But maybe this is because as an ex-dingbat I have the inside scoop on them, I’m subsequently told by someone else.

This morning a colleague asks me to be the union representative: I’m diplomatic, I don’t kiss ass, I’m not self-serving, I can say my piece, I don’t take sides, I can negotiate. Huh. So it’s only lovers who want to cut me off at the knees. Or alternatively, all the people I normally infuriate with my impartiality suddenly see how this can be turned to their advantage.

Underneath it all runs a little thread of worry and dread and anger, and that’s the mouldy paste my thoughts are sticking to – the things I don’t want to write, that pervade everything I do write.

Mea Culpa

October 21, 2007

To whom it may concern (if it does not concern you, then you need go no further — a lack of concern would only distress us both):

There’s something I need to tell you… a confession, if you will. In fact, I think of you as my virtual confessor. That makes sense, since everything we do together is virtual — confession, sex, gossip, fight. It’s all virtual. You’re virtual. But anyhow, dearest virtual one, here is my confession. I believe the world is ending. This may disturb you… either the fact that I believe this to be the case, or the fact of the ending itself. Either way, my confession has achieved its purpose. I may now pass my sense of responsibility on to you. You may choose to make me feel better about the ending of the world, or you may choose to prevent such an ending. Either way. Your problem now.

Oh, there’s more. I have another confession. I have deceived you with another (virtual) woman. Well, I assume she is a woman. She types as I imagine a woman would type. During our impassioned session of virtual lovemaking, she keyed in the appropriate sounds and reactions, so I can only assume that I have, in fact, deceived you. My previous declarations of undying virtual love are now to be considered null and void. Please tear up the contract. Then, please forgive me.

You have forgiven me? Then, I have another confession to make.  I am not who you believe me to be. I do not ride stallions majestically across the white sands. I will not, cannot, never intended to sweep you into my strong, sculpted, hirsute arms (sorry — I found the picture that I sent you on an anonymous blog about arm fetishes) and rescue you from the drudgery that is your so-called real life. There is very little in what I emailed you that is fact. I am really 14 years old, live in my parents’ basement, and masturbate nightly to that slightly blurry photo you sent me of you in that diaphanous white gown and silver stiletto heels.

Oh. Not really you? I am deceived. I am destroyed. I am devastated.

You are forgiven.

You can get here from there

October 12, 2007

I have no idea what direction I’m coming from at the moment.  I’m OK at work – there I’m walking straight at you and I’ll be right up in your face if you don’t move.  Here and now… no idea.  No clue what’s going on in my head, although there seems to be some surface activity, doing the chitchat thing.  But really I keep wanting to say:  “What do you think I’m on?  Where do you think this stuff is coming from?  When do you think it’ll stop?”  And more than that: “Do you think it’ll do any good?  Is this all I’ve got, or is it just a symptom (this mental discharge)?”

I suppose I’ll know in a week or so, or I’ll just get used to it.  I suppose whatever direction I’m going in I’ll just keep going in.  I think I’m headed somewhere familiar, but I still wish I knew how I got here, or what way I’m facing.