Hormonally Yours...

I came across this flourish-slash-interesting-twist to the written formula with which one can end a letter on someone's Myspace page, and it made me smile. I thought it an adroit title for this specific entry, since this is all about my hormonal state and how my hormones seem to designate importance/significance to the individuals that happen to enter my life haphazardly. To try to explain why one is attracted to some and repulsed by others is as useful an activity as rolling a boulder uphill then watching it roll back down. It's a matter of taste, of aesthetics, of conditioning. It has very little to do with active decision-making. Basically, it's just a question of your particular hormonal state. Of course, I'm talking about the initial attraction; by which I mean the feeling you get deep down in your abdomen when your eyes happen to catch sight of a potential partner, and his/her eyes reflect the spark - like a mirror - that has lit up your eye. The second attraction, at least in my experience, happens, or not, when you actually strike up a conversation - if sparks then fly, too, I'm yours, or you're mine... whichever you like.

A few weeks back my eye happened to catch sight of a guy whom it found - in collusion with my hormones - attractive (tall, well-built, redhead). I managed to introduce myself, and even though my mind revolted against the little dance of words (which proved a dance macabre) that was taking place between us (my mind, I must confess, was signalling loudly that it found the guy tedious) I was happily rubbing myself against him, and getting more & more excited, which - of course - the guy noticed. His attention had been thitherto all over the place - perhaps, he was shy I kept telling myself, trying to drown the lament my mind was crying out - but once he felt my manhood pressing against his well-developed thigh he was able to focus his attention on me. However, the more words came out of his mouth, the more bored I got. But, still no response from my hormones... they were cheerfully champing down the piece of man meat that got them salivating. At a certain point the guy said that he was going to look for his friend since they were there together and he wanted to check on him. It was sweet that he is such an attentive friend. Once he disappeared out of sight my mind augmented its cry seeing it saw the coast clear; it knew that once the source that drove my hormones was out of sight it stood a good chance to convince my legs to move in the opposite direction of the object of my lust, which was what happened. I went to collect my coat & I exited the building, leaving the guy probably wondering where I was and why he wasn't going to get any nookie since everything was going *so* well.

Well, this time it's the other way round. This time my hormones didn't even get the sweet taste of initial attraction. My mind has bypassed all that. I have gone straight to second attraction, forcing my hormones to follow suit... and even though hormones are strong, the mind is far stronger. It can be demoniacally persuasive. How can I miss talking to someone whom I've never met?

The Good, The Bad, & The Absolutely Fugly

A few days back I was riding the metro minding my own business per usual when a guy I know from my church-going days entered the metro. He looked at me awkwardly as though it pained him to see me; his eyes bulged slightly, and his mouth reluctantly formed a smile. He sat down at the far end across me, and struck up a conversation, which went as follows:

Him: Hey. Good to see you. How've you been?

Me: Fine. Just fine.

Him: I run into your sister quite a lot in H & M.

Me: Yes, she happens to work there.

Him: Yeah, that's cool.

At this point I cleared my throat, of course, in slight irritation. I quite managed not to roll my eyes at him, though I felt like, and had pictured myself doing so at several intervals during our talk.

Him: How's your brother Carlos?

Me: He's fine. Just fine.

Note: my brother's name is Giancarlo. We call him Carlo for short. Not Carlos. There's no-one in his circle of acquaintance who calls him that, except - of course - those who hover at the outer rims.

Him: Say hi to him for me, OK?

Me: Sure. I'll say hi to Carlos for you.

I thought to myself: "Yes, I'll say hi to some random Carlos for you... Idiot."

Luckily, he had to get off at the next stop. When I was walking home I dug into my memory in search for the answer to why I didn't particularly feel like talking to him. I come across many people haphazard whom I know from my church-going days, and some of them I talk to without their causing the slightest irritation, and others just make my skin crawl. I have forgotten most of the people's faces, at any rate, which is an excellent way to not notice them genuinely. Then it struck me that he has always been - as far as my recollection could take me - an idiot. Some people are just born that way. Always asking silly questions. Always causing my skin to itch.

I've been exchanging messages with a nice young intelligent man who lives in Minneapolis. He makes me smile. Not only because of his understated sense of humour, but mostly because we are so much a like. It's heartwarming to come across people who are so much like you in a sense.

My life's still bobbing along quite indolently, being pushed forward by various winds of change. I don't know what to do actually, and as of late I find I have very little time to really rest. To take some time and examine things.

I've been listening to a whole lot of Me'shell Ndgéocello lately (her cd Bitter), and I'm completely smitten with her voice. If ever I should compile a list featuring songs that define me, or certain experiences I have gone through the song Bitter would most definitely be on the list. Which other songs would be on that list?

Too many to list. I'll have to muse on this one.

I'll leave you with the lyrics to Bitter.

ME'SHELL NDGÉOCELLO
Bitter

You push me away bitterly
My apologies fall on your deaf ears
You curse my name bitterly
And now your eyes they look at me bitterly

I stand ashamed amidst my foolish pride
'Cause for us there'll be no more
For us there'll be no more
And now my eyes look at you bitterly
Bitterly bitterly

In Thrice They Come, In Thrice They Go.

I've just realized that I need to start working out again. I've lost quite a few pounds, and am looking rather like a shade of my former self. Not yet gaunt, but rapidly heading in that direction (Although, I enjoy being slim, waif-like I think it's time to beef up - just a tiny bit) It's a different look from beefy, butch homosexual man.

My manager/friend/ex-roommate C. reads my blog, as you might have noticed, and today he kindly let me know - again I might add - about company policy on surfing the Internet during office hours. He has also commented on some remarks I made in my post concerning my job. This is what you get when you're friendly with the management; even when they're not working they keep tabs on you. I know that he's been known to surf the Internet during office hours, as well. And he knows that I know. I can recall numerous MSN conversations conducted while he was in office, supposedly working like a diligent bee raking in the dough. But, I did not throw these facts in his face, nor did I even mildly hint at them. I just said that I know what company policy says. I then added that if he didn't like what he reads on my blog that he should stop reading it. He said no. I said OK. I hope that that will be the end of it.

I may now feel pressured to write less candidly about my work, but having mulled over the concept I have decided to not go with it. No, I'm not going to write less candidly about my work, since this is my online diary in which it is my right to bitch about things that I feel are worth bitching about.

My life, at this point, is quite devoid of diversions. Well. I do not go out dancing. I do not have a hobby, nor a special someone. It seems the only things I do are sleep, eat (and this not even on a regular basis), and work. In between these very exciting activities I manage to sneak in the odd trip to the museum, or a dance recital.
And with the prospect of a good friend's departure to strange lands looming at the not so distant horizon my life seems to be heading toward a scary place where social contact is even more limited than it is now. Of course, there are other people in my life. But they all have fairly regular jobs, and cannot meet during the day. And since my living in these backwater parts entails my having to travel at least an hour before reaching the civilized world, I had rather not meet during the evenings - especially in this weather. I'd rather stay in and do absolutely nothing. Well. That's a lie. I'd rather stay in and write.

At any rate, my blog must read like a sad tale of boredom. Unfortunately, my life is at the moment hog-tied; its movements limited to what I have listed prior, which makes for not a very exciting read. I can write about my anxieties, though I do not want to whine. I do much of that already. I guess, that a bit of soul-searching at this point would be a dangerous undertaking; dangerous in the sense that it will draw a most unfavourable impression of me, since my current state of mind will distort any feeling I might be experiencing, or any thought I might have. Even though, this is my place to vent I'm constantly aware that someone is reading along as I'm typing this. So. It's an uncomforatble feeling. I see it as an experiment. An experiment into determining how I will deal with eyes directed constantly at me, focused on my every move. These pair of eyes needn't pass a moral judgment; their mere presence will act as a (moral) corset shaping what I write.

Today at work I was less tired, but just as irritable as yesterday. I suppose my lack of proper nutriments is affecting my mental health. I need to find myself a hobby, or at least, something else worth fretting about, because these scribbles about food, sleep, work are far from interesting, and put even me to sleep.

The Girl with the Red Shoes

I have just got home from watching a dance recital (D'un soir un jour; based on the intricate yet, clear impressionism of Claude DeBussy, with music by DeBussy, Stravinsky & George Benjamin) with a friend. Well. What can I say. The reviews in the foreign press were amazing, unfortunately the piece itself did not live up to the warm praise. I found it tame, and rather lacking in vigour. The dancers appeared even more listless & tired than I was. I nodded off several times; I wish they had done so, too. The more I attend these nodules of modern art, the more I realize that art is quite dead. If not dead, than at least moribund, and anxiously awaiting death by any means. In this case death by the able hands of Rosas (www.rosas.be)

I had a fun evening, nevertheless. I have got to know several fresh acquaintances better, and found it refreshing to divert my mind.

Privy

My best friend and I got into a fight (or rather she went off her top and told me that she never wanted to see me again); I didn't want to blog about it, seeing that I didn't want to rant about, and trash someone who's been so close to me. But, as of late she is really making me want to unknow her. At heart, I'm not pissed off at her even though she has said, done things that really hurt my feelings; I just cannot bring myself to hate her, or be mad at her in such a manner that I will want to have absolutely nothing to do with her. I cannot go from liking someone to hating someone in just a matter of weeks. I don't even find it necessary to hate someone with a vengeance like that, or choose to behave in a manner that suggests that. I hate the way she's behaving rather than her as a person, since I feel like I'm being driven to act likewise (Despite, everything she is a really nice, and warm person - or, she can be - and to paint her the devil is not doing her any justice - really - she may at times behave like one, but she is most definitely not one). I feel like I'm an actor in a really bad play who's being directed by an incompetent director. At any rate, I've decided that if she wants to act all mad, and angry she can do so at her heart's content but I'm stepping out of this play. I've had it. I was angry with her because I thought she was being unreasonable, but now when I reflect on the matter I have reached that point where I do not care, since I do not see the point.

I just find it such a waste that we have been reduced to this. Silliness basically. Communicating in a way that feels so unnatural. To be honest, I miss her. But, in the light of things it cannot ever be like it was before, and that saddens me more than anything. It's like she's dead, and instead of acting pissed off - when, in fact, I'm not - I'd rather mourn the loss and move on. Life is for the living, n'est-ce pas?

So. I've just spent the evening with C. and it was nice to see him again, and have some time with him alone. He's accused me of not writing enough about him in my blog; to say he craves to be the centre of attention is to fall short. I would love to write about him - in a frank way - but I guess that such a character assessment would not further our friendship, and I do not want to write another blog stating that yet another friend has chosen not to talk to me - ever. Having said this, I'm not saying that I would paint a picture that is unflattering, I'm just saying that should I paint such a honest picture of him I would also show pieces of his character that he chooses - in real life, even - to rather not disclose. Even he is prudent in the way he shows himself to the world. So, why disapprove of my discretion?
He's has grown more important to me over the last few months, and I'm eternally indebted to him. And, I could list all his wonderful qualities and by so doing share him with you all, but I choose not to. I should like to speak my mind in why I choose so: I like to keep certain experiences private, and in this C. and I differ greatly. By sharing experiences that are dear to me with millions of other people I, in a way, trivialize them; I make them common. I take away the privateness. You see, by writing it down I relegate the experience to the world that is extraneous. The world of words. It becomes part of something else and ceases to be a part of me. That is one reason why people write. To write out their feelings. To distance themselves thereof. (It's all very therapeutic)
So. I write about the stuff I want to let go. The stuff I want to banish to the world of words. The stuff that merely takes up space in my head, and I had rather forget. But, somethings I like to keep private, and not share with the world.

Pure.
The day starts slowly
Like the reel of a film
Turning corners sharply
Anxiously running toward
The mill.

Pure.
In the mirror sparks fly
Flow from left to right - the line
That splits my face in half
Half grey, half white
Runs across the earth
Breathing.

Pure.
Ashes stick to my hair
The bite of life burns my neck
Around the eyes remain the stripes
Half waking, Half dead
A sideway glance toward the end
To deplore the disconnected
Gas.

Some things are very dear

I intended to write a different entry today, or rather post a different entry, but seeing that my mind is cramped in this constricting mood I thought it best to just write and see where my writing takes me.
Today was spent mostly in bed, listening to the evenly modulated singing of several artists, writing my shadow blog on www.myspace.com/johndonne and reflecting on life - in general. I have been giving the story that has developed in my mind a great deal of thought, and last Sunday something dawned on me when I was discussing the merits of philosophy with a guy. It's silly trying to emulate established writers; I know it's been my goal to reach their level of artistry, but that - in a sense - means effacing myself to a certain extent. I should create my own way of constructing a narrative. Thinking about these things is quite easy; putting it all into practice is much, much harder. So - instead of raking my, already aching, brain - I've taken up studying African-American writers, and how they forged a narrative for themselves, build a tradition on the smouldering ashes of slavery, and fleshed out a culture by fusing old ways with the new, to see what they can teach me. I know. But, it's the most effective way to establish one's own style. See. Copy. Do.

I have spent quite some time studying rhetorics, and writing, writing, writing. Now, I feel that I have mastered the art of language enough to put pen to paper and draw blood from the particles that make up this universe, steal atoms, combine molecules to create my characters on paper. I've been writing a pretty, little story about a woman who loses her mind, or so it seems. I'm extremely interested in the position women take up in society - as a gay man it may seem strange that I would show any such interest, but the position women take up in society is inextricably bound to the position gay men take up in society. Gay men are always judged and viewed in relation to women, since they are in the eyes of most men not truly men; and if one's not truly male one cannot be anything else but female. This is the world of dichotomy. You're either one, or the other. So. If this patriarchal society questions women's sanity, gay men's sanity will not go unquestioned. It, too, will be judged accordingly.
But, this woman I'm writing about isn't mad at all. She is very much sane. It is society that labels her insane because she fails to comply with the set norms. It's not finished yet. I'm afraid it will remain so for the time being. I cannot write when I do not feel inspired, or when I feel that the words are just not right. Yesterday a girl who's also planning to write a first novel told me that she can write a hundred pages a day if she sat down to write. I was amazed, and impressed. I should thank God if I get to write ten pages a day. Usually, I produce one page a day. Some stories I can write quite easily; my mind just pours them on to paper. Others - like this story about the woman in a mental institution - are - in my mind - far more intricate and therefore need much more attention and care. Hence my deliberation.

I'm going to finish with a poem:

Some things should stay hidden
Behind golden clouds that smile
And say: "You're welcome sir.
All's forgiven, forgotten not
For another mile."

Something of the way you laugh
Will always ring at the break of day
The things you said when we lay
In bed will colour dark
Against the sky

(I am, now, but one step
Away from drowning in
The Northern wind)

So swift the earthy moods have changed
So solemn the trees chose the waves
While colours dance like yesterdays
Across the silver lakes to die.

"You're welcome sir. Another mile
We'll run, we'll sing, we'll play.
But behind our wooly coats will cry
All the things you chose to hide."

Now you see the bunny run, now you see the bunny on your plate

I have had quite a week. I have gone to an exhibit of Klimt & Toorop paintings on Sunday with my - now - ex-roommate, C. I'm in love with Klimt's painting Medizin, and luckily for me it was one of the centre pieces of the exhibit. Of course, silly ice cube that I am, I went on the last day, which - naturally - was the day millions of other people who share my level of silliness decided it was the bestest day to visit the exhibit. One could hardly move without bumping into some or other stranger, or obstruct someone's intent gaze. I'm not even going to divulge on the numerous toes that have been stepped on, whether intentionally or not.
C. & I made fun of some of Toorop's paintings; it seems he could hardly paint flattering pictures of women. His woman looks rather haggard; sharp features, huge chins, with equally pronounced noses. I'm not attracted to women, but if I were I would be slightly offended by their depiction in these paintings: I cannot stomach people making light - or in this case: monsters - of my predilections unaccompanied by the famous tongue in cheek. Of course, our tongues - when joking - were firmly planted in our rosy cheeks, so to speak. No foul in our merry-making.

I must say that I had great fun that Sunday, though I'm not sure if C. had as much fun as I did. He appeared absent-minded - a state he's rarely in. Though I was a bit worried I brushed it aside quite readily since he's not one to linger beyond a necessary moment in a certain mood. He's quite adept in making his moods change from heavy to light. At any rate, I was sleepy, and went to bed as soon as I came home.

Wednesday I went to see D. D. and I had had a dalliance last summer, which resulted, like all dalliances that go unchecked, in a messy episode in which tears flowed - mostly, if not only his - like the mighty amazon river, his mouth delivered a rapid and continuous fire of words - mostly, if not only in a whiny tone of voice - and pairs of underwear were returned to wearer - in this case: me - in an envelope. I had chosen not to see him anymore. Drama of this sort is best avoided like wearing white after labour day. At any rate, he sent me an email saying that he was sorry he behaved in such a manner, and that he's over me, and that he would like to have a drink sometime. Sometime sounded quite pleasant, since it is entirely non-committal. I decided to make sometime this Wednesday. I called him, and we arranged to meet in Amsterdam. Note: I hate Amsterdam. With my newly acquired powers of self-deception I had turned the unpleasant act of visiting Amsterdam into an act I could look forward to without the slightest pricking of my sensibilities. Quite happy with this feat I went about planning my day in Amsterdam; I resolved to do some shopping, and buy some books in one of my favourite bookshops. The day went along quite nicely once I was there, though at around six my brain began to fatigue; it could no longer sustain the illusion, and I started itching to leave that Godforsaken place. I rang up D. to relieve my stress, but he was not cooperating - i.e. he did not answer his phone - and I slipped into a minor panic attack. Luckily, I got hold of him presently and we agreed to meet at his place and then go out for drinks & dinner (have you noticed the order?). We had Thai food, and two bottles of wine. Then we consumed an entire carton of B&J's. I stayed the night, which was probably not my brightest idea. But, my brain was already fatigued, sugared, and liquored up to think properly, so nothing but imprudent decisions could it make. There was some innocent hanky-panky, which left me feeling rather like an idiot. Since it reiterated the realisation that had already dawned on me: D. and I are so not meant to be an item, it's not even funny. He's a nice enough guy, good-looking enough, bendy enough, intelligent enough, but - unfortunately - I find him not captivating enough. If he could only grab and hold my attention for several minutes in row I would in an instant grow attached to him, but alas. I don't want to come across as a snob, or as some guy who thinks highly of himself. Moreover, I'm not calling D. boring - not at all even - I'm just saying that I'm not that into him. It's not his fault, and it's not my fault. It all bottles down to chemistry. There is none between us. Alchemy, perhaps, but not chemistry. I left Amsterdam feeling odd. And silly. I felt sixteen. And all the while the words D. uttered when lying in bed rung in my ear: "What's wrong with a little hanky-panky? it's not wrong if we both want it." But therein lies the sting D. I did not want it at heart. I was swayed by hormones, and the promise of connecting to someone. That promise, however, was unfulfilled and left me feeling lonelier than I had felt before I sallied into your bed.

Ah. Well. Today at work a colleague of mine Diana was grilling me; asking me all sorts of questions about my private life, and in a bout of candour I told her more than she needed to know on the level of our acquaintance. She is a strange woman. Guarded I should say. Quite difficult to assess. She has a way of talking of things in a light, and frivolous manner; in a sense luring you, like the pied piper, into disclosing your innermost thoughts. At any rate, I let her lead me down her mental path. I told her I don't like people. That I would rather be alone. That I enjoy doing things by myself. That I should like to buy a cat, and live like a hermit. She laughed, but she could as well have clicked her tongue in disapproval. I like her. She's human. I suspect some of my colleagues to be of an otherworldly nature. Quite scary folk. They would make colourful characters in a novel...

Tada!

The new year has come, and with it came an act of betrayal of a Shakespearian scenario. Tada!