Sometimes the oil don't matter, and the politics are meaningless.

cliffordu

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Sat Jun-12-10 01:28 AM
Original message

Sometimes the oil don't matter, and the politics are meaningless.

Edited on Sat Jun-12-10 01:30 AM by cliffordu

I know why I left her and the cats and the wood stove.

I know why I moved 350 miles south to an empty studio and a year long lease.�

I know why.�

Lenny Bruce said it:

"Intellectual awareness does no good�."

"You know your wife loves you, but find her fucking the mailman and your heart is still ripped out of your chest."

Only that isn't a direct quote and she didn't cheat. �

It would have been easier if she had fucked around.

There'd be a visible wound, a reason for leaving. A real consequence for an action taken. A tit for a tat.

As it is, there's nothing more than the malevolent detritus of inattention, the afterbirth of annoyances born and nursed for decades.�

****

It's the way she repeatedly scraped the ice-cream bowl.�

Or the way I imitated that cartoon voice she hates.

I did a dead on imitation.�

She enjoyed her ice cream immensely.

We'd grind our teeth and smile like the reaper.

I left because we were dying of petty resentment and boredom and the complete abdication of �joy�..�

I left because we both stopped trying.

***

In these flaccid, sleepless nights I practice taking responsibility for every fucking bit of it.�

I slowly confess every sin obscenely nuanced in slo-mo across this shadowed ceiling�.

The pornography of self hatred:

I am the deadbeat, the weight she has to carry, the Identified Patient, the root and cause of the problems and heartbreaks.

The embarrassment when her friends ask what I do��

The soundtrack is a top 40 repeat of sweet phrases rendered to simmering malevolence and sarcasm, both of us tucked behind a thin veneer of the lovey-dovey, of the smile and smooch .�

Every passive-aggressive booby trap and gotcha double bind sweetly replayed from every angle for maximum penetration�

It's a snuff film starring love. Hacked to bloody pieces by a million tiny grievances�.

****

For years we touched and pulled away fast,� before that stupid grandma kiss reached for something more,

something old and familiar but still electric�..maybe still erect, or wet��

What's left were dulled passions scooped out of ice cream cartons,

revealed in new guitar cases for a couple of minutes or hours,

then scuttled back to deep silent longings. To loss. To exhaustion.

Marriage as a stupor held fast by the monotonous drone of television�

'So you think you can dance',

' House',�

'American Idol'�..

The drug of choice for the stifling, suffocating inertia of complete surrender.

***

It's a week on and I have yet to eat a meal in my new, empty apartment.

I abandoned a full shopping cart this morning, unable to bear the weight of cooking for just myself.�

****

There are people in this world who know nothing about making marriage last and everything about bitter, acrimonious divorce

I imagine they flock to her aid, handing out man-hating/ mentally-ill hating-put them-all-on-the-street advice:�

"You can't change what's wrong with him. You cannot help him. You have to let him go"

"You cannot let him take you down with him....you have to detach now that he's acted out��"

"You have to protect yourself."

"You've gone to hell for him, don't go to hell with him..."

"You can do better"

And on and on and on.

****

More than one have axes to grind and there will be bloody sacrifice made, no matter who pays the freight.

They'll hurt her worse than I did to prove their bitter theories on men and women and marriage and divorce.

****

We need help, but tough love and meetings won't fix this little problem. No one alive knows what will.

****

On the phone she said:

"If I'm sick it's because I've been living with an Identified Patient - a severely mentally ill person"

She stopped short when I reminded her that I had been living with a mentally ill person, too��

****

She still believes I caused the problems because the doctors and everyone else told her I caused the problems.

I believe I caused her problems because I am the Good Patient. �The Identified Patient.

I must take the blame.�It is my solemn duty. It is my Destiny.

****

About that Intellectual Awareness:

In reality we both caused the problem.

And systematically ignored hers.�

And lost our way.

****

But still:

I am the son of a bitch. The bad guy. The scapegoat.

I'm cool with that, I know the hood. It's how I roll.

But I ain't dead yet.

What I am now is

Gone.�

The Patient escaped. �He's on the loose�.. �

Which begs the question:

Who will we blame now?