so very alone…

I had decided to stop writing this blog, but then today I had lunch with the weirdest person I have ever talked to. Yes, that’s right: Mary. We had lunch. And while she was telling me her sad, sad story, I kept thinking to myself, "I’ve got to tell someone about this."

And that someone, I realized, is this blog.

I’ll get to that later this afternoon, when I have time. Right now I just wanted to mention that I am sticking around.

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I have something to reveal today.

No, it’s not that I’m not real. Because I am real. More real than most of you.

It’s that I’ve been taking Celexa for the past month. And you know what? I’m starting to feel pretty damn good. And you know what else? I look back at about 90% of the blog I’ve written so far and am pretty mortified by the fact that I ever wrote such crap.

By the way, judging from the substance of the comments this blog generates, about 95% of you ought to be looking at either starting or adjusting your medication, too.

Except Lily, who maybe might want to simply lay off the medication altogether for a while. Just to see what it’s like.

For about two weeks, I’ve been trying, when I write this blog, to continue to push the "woe is me" thing. Give the yokels what they paid for. But the truth is, I don’t feel too woeful right now. And I don’t feel like I need the cheap therapy that this blog used to provide. And above all, I don’t need the shit advice I generally get here.

Bertha, by the way, can take a flying fuck. Oh, and Jane too. Yeah, Jane. I just mentioned you on my blog. Bite me.

Yeah, I’m still alone. Probably always will be. And guess what: most people are assholes, so maybe being alone isn’t a bad thing to be.

I’m going to take a few days off to decide whether I am going to continue this blog. If I do, I’m just going to talk about my life as it is. I’m not going to pretend to be more pathetic than I am.

And if I don’t continue the blog, well then, it’s been fun. Occasionally.

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I feel awful.

I left a bag of rotten chicken hearts hanging from Bertha’s door knob, and haven’t heard a peep from her.

Last weekend, after spending so much time holed up in my condo, I decided to “get out there” and go downtown. People like my sister are always saying “get out there” as if that’s the magic elixir. It’s not. If I had a decent life coach, he would have said, “You’re in no shape to get out there. You need to hole up for awhile. It’s best for everyone.”

So I was downtown alone. I went into a restaurant to eat lunch and ordered food to go. It was a simple meal — chicken teriyaki with fried rice – but there was more plastic and cardboard than food. I sat at a bench by a bus stop to eat the meal. Cigarette butts were all over the ground. My drink was watered down. Some cyclist riding by hocked a loogie in the gutter.

The meal was bland.

Even though I was still hungry, I wrapped up the rest of the food and was going to throw it away. The bundle was too big to fit in the little hole on the top of the trash can. I tried to jam it in. Then I just hurled the whole mess high into the middle of the street, where a car ran over it right away as a different car honked. I assume they were honking at me, but you never know.

A woman pushing a baby stroller said, “You shouldn’t litter.”

A few minutes later, I thought of the line I should have said: “You shouldn’t breed.”

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Something’s been tugging at the back of my head lately. I haven’t been able to shake it. I’ve been forgetting something. But what is it?

Yesterday afternoon I finally remembered: I was supposed to start my second job last Monday.

I called HR and left a voicemail that I had been in the hospital with severe dehydration brought on by acute pneumonia, but that I was better now and would be coming in this Monday, and that I hoped they would not count this untimely illness against me.

They didn’t return my call, but it was Friday afternoon, so I really didn’t expect them to.

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I was expecting Bertha to come over last night at the very least to talk about the letter I sent. And I wasn’t sure how I would respond. Perhaps I’d send her on her way. Perhaps she would confess her undying love for me. Perhaps we’d make love one more time for closure. I hoped to stand my ground.

I sat around waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . for my phone to ring or for the door to swing open. At around 10:30, Bertha texted me:

got yr ltr. thx cutie. very sweet. must say no. luv always. b

I have to admit her message disappointed me on a number of levels. Actually, “disappointed” is the wrong word. I think “infuriated” is closer to the mark. I thought I was getting my head around a break-up, and now I’m mad.

It can’t end that way. I have to do something.

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In a fit of anxiety, I decided to go “jogging” last night. For me, jogging consists of alternating between shuffling and walking. And these days, there’s more walking than jogging since I’ve been smoking half a pack of cigarettes a day. (Don’t worry — I can stop anytime.)

There’s no way I would ever go jogging if it weren’t for the trails that run through the greenspace behind my condo. As I was making my way through the network of trails, I took a wrong turn and ended up running into someone’s back yard.

What I saw stunned me.

In the groomed back yard was a treehouse and a play structure with a long slide and several swings. Between the treehouse and play structure was a rope hanging from an impossibly tall tree. I’m not certain, but I imagine you could swing Tarzan-style between the treehouse and the play structure.

Inside the house were shiny people ranging from all ages. A grandmother was sitting in a big chair. There were three adults who all touched each other affectionately several times. The older children were in a circle on the floor, playing a board game or cards. A couple of toddlers too young to play the game bounced in and out of sight. The glow of a fire lit the room.

Outside the sliding glass door was a medium-sized yellow dog. The dog wanted in. Badly. It was whimpering loud enough for me to hear it, but the the people inside the house didn’t seem to notice. I like to think music was playing, because it would seem too cruel for them to ignore the dog. The dog sat erect for a long time — at least a half hour – every now and then walking in a little circle and then resuming his stance.

I wanted so badly for someone to open the door and let the dog in.

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I finally settled on a letter for Bertha. Once I decided to stop trying to write in poetic language and just let my feelings out, the words began to flow.

Dear Bertha,

My heart is broken. I feel our love slipping away.

Our relationship has taken me places that I never knew existed. Before I was with you, I had mistakenly believed the heights of love could only be reached between two perfect beings, and yet it is our very imperfections that draw us together and tighten our bond. When I think of how your whole body jiggles when you laugh or how your lip curls when you’re mad at me, my heart soars.

You and I both know our relationship isn’t ideal. I have ignored you at times, and you’ve somehow convinced yourself that it’s perfectly fine to have sex with other people. We’ve even yelled and called each other unspeakable names.

Despite all this, I value our intimacy above everything. When I’m with you, I am far from alone. I want to be with you. It breaks my heart that you seem so willing to treat our love in such a casual manner.

I must give you a choice. Either be with me — and be with me only — or never see me again.

Love,

Harlan

After I composed this letter, I wrote it out by hand, added my scent to it, and send it by mail. I can’t wait for her answer. In other words, I anxiously await her reply.

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If I were on an airplane that started to rock violently and shutter and plummet, my first thought would be, “Damn! I’m not going to get to see The Hobbit movies!”

Not that I’m entirely sold on Guillermo Del Toro. I watched Pan’s Labyrinth to test his bona fides, and I’ll just say this – he’s no Peter Jackson. He’s not even Sam Raimi. Still, the fact that we’ll have Peter and Fran and Philippa doing the storyboarding and scripting means we’re in safe hands. Plus, Sir Ian McKellen will be back as Gandalf, along with Andy Serkis as Gollum. I’m not sure who should play Bilbo – Ian Holms will be 80 by the end of filming – my choice is Martin Freeman. He looks like a hobbit.

I have two other concerns.

First, I hope they make the first movie using the complete story line from The Hobbit and the second movie about what happens between The Hobbit and LOTR. I don’t want two movies with a mish-mash of true and fabricated plot lines.

Second, I hope they remain faithful to the tone of The Hobbit. Unlike LOTR, The Hobbit is a children’s book. It’s not nearly as dark. I’m concerned that Del Toro will add too much violence and horror. The Hobbit shouldn’t have any impalings or beheadings. If I have a son or daughter soon, I want to be able to watch this movie over and over with them when they’re still toddlers and not wait until they’re teenagers.

Speaking of future children, I am still composing my love letter. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I have writer’s block. I keep typing sentences that are supposed to be sincere, like ”Beloved Bertha, toucher of my heart, kisser of my lips,” and then I turn it into parody. “Lover of my loins.”

And then I delete the whole thing and start over. “Dear Bertha, You have touched me in a way that no one else has.” And then more parody followed by Command-A, Delete. I’m obviously taking the wrong approach. To put it in terms that my new boss would understand, I need a reset meeting.

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I was determined not to see Bertha last night for reasons you could imagine. So I rented a porno and pulled all my window shades down and was all set to spend a quiet evening with just me and Little Harlan.

I changed my mind.

I used to have this notion that I was completely in charge of what I do. My body is a steamship and I’m the captain. The longer I live, the more I think my body is a flotilla, and I’m a frightened passenger clutching a fake steering wheel on the deck of one of the ships, wondering where we’re going and why the hell we don’t turn away from those rocks up ahead (aft). All I can do is shout and spin the wheel. Sometimes the ships turns. And sometimes it doesn’t.

Bertha was expecting me. And here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s healthy to have sex when there are so many issues to sort out, even when neither person says a single word during the encounter.

When I left, I felt emptier than I would have felt if I’d watched the porno.

Our relationship is dying. I need to feel loved again. I know how futile it is for me to talk through issues in person, so I’m going to spend the rest of the day composing the most beautiful love letter ever written.

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It’s been a rough couple of days. I should probably apologize for a number of things, but it seems like people just get mad at me whenever I apologize. So I’ll just post Bertha’s rejection email and leave well enough alone.

My dear, dear [Harlan]:

We have opened our hearts to each other. Our souls have been intertwined in coital bliss. To me every hour of the light and the dark has been a miracle.

And yet I must say no.

It is not our time. It is not our place. It is not our moment. Do not close yourself off and wrap your gifts in a cocoon. Spread your wings and fly, fly, fly. Soar above your mortal limitations. Soar above your troubles. Soar above your fears.

In your darkest hours, you can always choose to perceive things differently. You have a choice. You can focus on what’s wrong in your life, or you can focus on what’s right. Love is right, [Harlan]. If you give your life as a wholehearted response to love, then love will wholeheartedly respond to you.

You are a glorious being. In the world of illusion, you are lost and imprisoned, a slave to your appetites and false power. In the world of truth and fearlessness, you are a physical embodiment of the divine. Be fearless. Be free.

With sincere love,
[Bertha]xoxox

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