Do You Know This Obscurity?

You never know what you get with a little bit of anything.

I am always surprised when reminded that there are a lot of men that do not know where the clitoris is. Personally, I am disappointed if it is not erect. I do not like being suffered.

I like the idea of the indirect confession. I want to use the cliché “It is not whether you win or lose but how you play the game” about a win, preferably mine. Why call it luck when you can make a complicated joke?

I can imagine myself agreeing with an accuser through logic. I would start with a complicated, tenuously established premiss. I would then elaborate on every piece of circumstantial evidence to argue for the conclusion that the accusations are well founded.

Sometimes breadcrumbs indicate a way. You have a one in two chance of picking the right way. And you will have passed many crumbs before you even saw that there was a pattern.

I like a bit of naughtiness when I masturbate. Silk underwear, or baby oil or a vibrating ring. Naughty. Sleazy. Sexy sleaze. Sleaze as a turn on when I don’t have a pair of eyes to look into, an arm to touch, or a leg to stroke. Or when I don’t have a pair of eyes looking into mine, someone touching my arm, or stroking my leg.

My desire for hedonistic living feels adolescent. I try to grow up by looking to invalidate the arguments against hedonism. They seem to rely on purpose. And purpose is incompatible with absurdism. I like Camus.

I was hiding the pain by acting very self-aware. It works when you believe the words and therein lies a world of paradox. A circle of self-reinforcing words pushing confirmation bias pulled by motivated reasoning. Then you stop believing the words and the narrative becomes real.

I want to be more deliberate in my knowledge testing.

I noticed that Aurelia had a few clueless moments when we were talking. Excepting when talking music. I was surprised at her depth of knowledge there.

Natalie is very good at hiding holes in her culture. It is unlikely she knows everything I have brought up. She has a different background. And she has asked a few clarification questions about in between stuff.

Remember who the narrator is.

Won’t You Come Along to Play?

Dear Reader,

I have chosen you as a silent participant in my therapy.

I was going to call you a therapist but I do not want any advice or assistance. Your role in this therapy is as an audience. Effectively, other than the leading questions, this is very similar to what my therapist does.

There is something very random about having you participate in my therapy. Despite the very personal you used here, you might be a random anonymous reader, or someone I know virtually or the one blogger I have met in real life. There is even a very small probability that you are someone I know but that does not know that this is me.

At the end of the day (what a fucking cliché), there is only one person that has met both of me and even he does not really know me. Heck, even I do not know myself. That is the point of this therapy: to strip away the lies I tell myself about myself and find myself.

So here I am playing word games and mind games again. My favourite at the moment is the fact that we have to see into the future to live in the present. … Technically. … Microseconds. The brain compensates for latency (the time it takes to process the senses) by guessing what should be happening now. The best known example being batters in baseball.

At least, for my peace of mind if no one else’s, there is one verifiable fact in this post. Everything else is subjective. That will complicate the journey to truth. Maybe even making it impossible. Like in Rashomon, where every observer has a different story for the same events, I only need to look into a mirror to see that, even if I am the main character, I am also only an observer with another version of the story.

Author’s note: I hereby explicitly inform you that I am an unreliable narrator. Something that I would have done at the beginning of this post if this declaration wasn’t a concession to reality. Despite the tone and the tag ‘fiction’ there are those that will confuse this with the truth. Whatever truths are mixed in here are, by nature, like me, unreliable.

Generational Differences

The tattoos confuse me. The more I see them, the more of them I see, the more I think of them.

They seem out of character. Steve would agree. There was this girl that got on the trolley bus in Lisbon. The left side of her body had a lot of ink. He looked at me. “Do you get it?” In our world, they are incongruous.

Tom says he likes to speak in ‘Frenglish.’ I prefer to compartmentalize, along with other things, my languages.

My son accuses me of emotional unavailability. My answer can only be guilty as charged.

And it is not news.

And I could add that I have been working on it. But that work has been in enough conversations.

She hears the story. Because of the nature of our conversations she had not realized how closed off I was in other contexts. She had heard the stories but not seen how extreme it was.

It is my defense mechanism. Open by nature, closed by trauma, pried partially open during 25 years then slammed shut during the next 25. The way out will take time to travel.

I see the tattoos as a disqualifier, a signal of the generational differences, I criticize the quantity. I judge their back facing position; that they are almost invisible to herself without a second mirror. I am looking for reasons to cancel the sexual attraction that feels so inappropriate.

Repairing the World

‘Coffee house philosophy’ is not the insult I mean it to be.

It sounds good. Literally. As in pleasing to the ear. The alliterating of the ‘f’ sounds almost musical.

I hesitate to share my opinion because my moral code would require me to research the subject and there are only so many hours in the day.

I want to, yet again, be dismissive of the reductionist solutions to the world’s problems. The one’s thought up during evenings that are followed by mornings where the crackpot solution being pursued is a hangover remedy.

I have a vague memory that some world changing ideas were literally born in coffee houses. Admittedly the ratio of good to bad ideas is impressive only by how heavily it is waited in favour of the bad ideas.

Regardless, I now see a lingering aura of nobility in the concept of ‘coffee house philosophy.’ I go with the wine bottle scale.

“That is a three bottle idea.”

Destination Nowhere – Row 1 Left

The commuter train goes through downtown to complete a circle through the western suburbs. I walk up the aisle to the first empty window seat on the left side of the railroad car. It is the eleventh set of seats.

I count again. I double check that there are no anomalies. In front of me, only the ten window seats facing forward are occupied. On the right side of the car, eleven sets of passengers all facing the direction of travel. The train leaves the station without any exceptions being created. I have just completed another instance of the pattern.

The pattern is ripe for assigning mystical properties to it but today my mind has drifted to the cartoonish. I am picturing, a little like the racing catamarans where everyone shifts to one side of the boat to keep it from tipping over, the train leaning into corners with the wheels of the right side of the car almost lifting off the rails.

From the front of the car, instead of a skipper giving instructions, I get the bragadacious voice of a fragile ego asserting to his phone that in matters of relationship status, all women are liars, that they are single when they are attracted to someone, that they are with someone when not and that the actual status is incidental. This is where my immediate dislike of the fellow takes over and predicts that he will be using this as an excuse to continue dreaming of a girl who has told him she has a boyfriend. He has missed the point. Regardless of how truthful the woman is, it is the announced status that counts.

I check again. Eleven times. The improbable is endlessly fascinating when it occurs.

Reality Doesn’t Always Fulfill Dreams

I am one of the lucky ones. Most of my cohort have only traveled to their first home and voyage only when they move. Safe and protected, they think they are the lucky ones.

My first real trip was from Paris to Cincinnati. I did have to travel to Paris first but that was done in steps plus nothing special happened on the way. Getting to the starting line doesn’t count.

I met her at the newsstand. The one that is off to the right just after the security in Terminal 2F at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. She was early for her flight and looking for a paperback novel to read. By the time we got to Cincinnati she knew my whole story.

She memorialized our meeting on the inside cover. “A book can tell more than one story.” This was followed by a second line “Paris -> Cincinnati” and the date. She then left me in the waiting area of a gate with a flight to Atlanta. That is where I met Jake. But that is a longer, less interesting, story with many months spent at the bottom of a travel bag.

Getting Pumped

“You look like a Southern girl.” He tells her it is because of her friendliness. The clue is her sun-bleached hair.

He has a bottled answer ready for questions about his being. “Who knows? I built myself using handbooks and I fictionalize the results.”

The way a mind can skip forward a step or two usually draws a blank stares. Missing steps adding a non to the sequitur. It leaves room for inventive back-fills. Or it can all sound like random nonsense.

“A profile named non sequitur should not be allowed to have followers.”

Sometimes it just leads to the painfully punny.

And this is the idealized version. He works hard at being interesting. Memorizing piles of facts only to feel like a talkative bore.

He’s working on a new routine on authenticity. It started at lunch on Thursday. Somehow the conversation had drifted to how it is about stripping away the layers of artifice. He got a good start with the observation that it was a never ending story, mumbled his way through always changing and finished this with his starting to wear a hat that people say looks good on him.

The story needs work. Something that actually explains how always changing leads to hat-wearing. And getting explicit about checking in with himself to make sure he isn’t wearing it for the effect. It’s a shame that the fedora season is almost over.

Looking at himself in the bar’s mirror he sees he is the one with the blank stare. A sip of beer allows his mind to segue between worlds. “Hi, I’m Jake.”


The rule works both ways. The picture of the mother’s youthful self makes it feel inevitable. She really did resemble her daughter.

She asks him to pass the towel. He takes a sip, places the glass back on the counter. As he strolls across the room, she remarks that to his investors he is just another dancing monkey. He hands her the towel and asks if she wants to go dancing after dinner.

The games being played are visible to everyone but the actors. The actors, capable of seeing the games the other players are playing, are convinced of their own authenticity. They are blind to the irrational not being deliberate.

It’s abstruse. I will speak clearly now, the haze is gone.

Where do unfulfilled resolutions fall on the spectrum?

What would Sisyphus‘ diary look like? If it ain’t about the journey, I am not interested.

Please don’t belittle me, I have my own thoughts too. (This phrase has been plagiarized from the subtitles of an Italian movie that looks like it was written by a fan of Camus [Before I get accused of being abstruse, Camus + Sisyphus – if you don’t get it, Google it, it is deliberate].)

It is not because you have seen the puppeteers that you have left the cave. (Plato. This is where I usually insult myself for playing it too cute.)

“Here we are breaking this long streak of not knowing each other.” When will I get to use this line for the first time? Here doesn’t count.

Little Fish

She prologues her having a son with a statement that she was hesitant about having children. She is proud of knowing her limits. One and done.

She tells of being born in the suburbs, having moved around, left the city, come back, moved to the country and now back in town. There is a life in those few facts. The reference points have been set promising details that will colour stories of adventure.

It is his turn to give his story and Jake stops listening in. He is wondering how this get-to-know-you stuff is supposed to warm up. It is too polite. His Salisbury steak is served.

Waiting for dessert, Jakes attention switches back to the first date. A second date now seems unlikely. She is astonished about something he said about his children. Jake has missed details but she is expressing her wonderment and the message is disapproval (of the disqualifying type). The date has reached a crossroad. They decline a second round and, as Jake’s coffee arrives, they get up to leave. She turns, flashes Jake a smile and they head off to the cashier.

Jake watches as she pays her half first. He smiles. Her hands signal she will be back in five minutes.

Good Time Then

I am a Bokonist.

Or maybe not. What is a Bokonist? Define your terms Yahooey.

I am not sure. I imagine it is something like the Church of the Latter Day Dude (I am ordained) or the Church of the Subgenius. Parody with enough wisdom for people to take it seriously.

The two strongest weapons of pseudo-profundity are paradox and begging the question. Either way is a means to no ends. Roads to nowhere. Like the circular roads around cities. It’s puzzling. Let’s assume it’s profound.

It is as free-form as an amoeba.

Does that mean anything?

Haven’t you seen all the amoeba memes?

Nice, nice, very nice.

Here’s a paradox that resolves: Bokonism is absurd without being absurdist.

So what is the point of playing with ideas?

Karass is an envelope for the random, a package that shows the flow, that maybe gives a glimpse of where it is going. You could probably follow the flow all the way back to the big bang. You can probably guess the next step.

Is it a consequence or a destiny?

I say a consequence. And that is an inconsequential answer. As in the answer doesn’t matter because the truth will win out.

Or maybe I am wrong. I have calculated them and I will take the odds.

Heed the Bokonist warning.