couples syndrome + the wisdom of a wise old lady

what is it about long time companions that so often, when out to dinner, they don't look at each other, but stare off into the restaurant, eyes glazed, not speaking. it is as if all has been discussed seven times over, or there's something so difficult to bring up they both say nothing. maybe i'm reading it wrong. maybe they share a serenity that requires no words and instead, exquisite silence. then again, wasn't it Nietzsche who wrote that all relationships, all the good ones, were essentially long conversations, with the cup never dry, the jokes never stale? in company the stories both have told before still make them laugh while sour couples roll their eyes. not again, they fume. 'i am so tired of his show-off blather.' 'can't she shut up? she's fucking flirting with that asshole with the same line she used when she met me.' the isolating desperation of two as if the other is not in the room, or worse, all too present. on the flip-side there is the mother of a friend who told my sister that 'unless you're jealous you're not in love'. and my friend Jane who used to say: 'they fight like they're in love'. without tension there is no love story. god knows we chew up the initial emo-rush with dark imaginings. or we stir a tepid pot with accusation so that the make-up sex is hot, or at least new, or re-newed. it's rare and wonderful to see those few couples, gay, straight, bi, trans whateverthefuck where life hasn't gone out of the frame. i remember reading about Bess and Harry Truman. when they'd moved out of the White House while it was being renovated and were sleeping at the Blair House. the secret service could hear the springs of the bed in the President's Suite squeaking like mad. they still loved each other, those two. they still went at it. neither had ever known another. i like hearing about that. it keeps me from settling (as if there is a Particular Perfect Someone) just because i don't want to be alone. i see a too much of better-someone-than-no-one, the fear of solitude. worse, however, is the nightmare of feeling isolated around the very one you're with. landing in Vineyard Haven, high on acid, my friends Patrick, Aam and i sat at a table at the Black Dog. across from us an old woman was reading. she wore a tight-fitting one-piece gray suit with a zipper that ran from crotch to throat with a ring, like a cock ring, at the neck inviting a pull down. she looked terrific and very old, but with none of the wandering mind, the looking back wistfully, the feel sorry for herself spectre. with my usual LSD forwardness i inquired: 'how is it, being old?' she put down her fork and looked right at me with clear blue eyes. 'you know what', she said, 'an old tree, weathered by storm and bleached, is beautiful. we all think so. an old car, up on cinder blocks in a back yard with weeds growing up around a rusted frame is beautiful. we all agree. we love old things. we even collect them. we pay for them. new is nice, but doesn't share that soul quality that has us loving old things, old objects. it isn't like that with people, is it? not for the most part. we like the young. and another thing? you may think, you might hope or imagine that eventually one reaches a plateau where one arrives, finally and where all makes sense and all questions answered. well i'll tell you, you don't. you won't. it's an endless upward curve of learning, suffering, moving on and trying again. i was married for many many years. one morning i put down the paper and looked across the table at my husband who was lost in breakfast, who was, in a sense, not there. not there with me anyhow. the sound of his fork on the plate was explosive. that did it. i'd had it. i left him. i walked out. you see you never know where life will take you. that no matter how we plan it, no matter what we anticipate, it will not be that way, not ever. maybe you get close on a good day, when you're lucky, to having The Truth fall into your lap. maybe, but not often. ok, that's it. that's all i've got to say. nice to meet you.' she stood up, pivoted and left, her cock ring bouncing at her throat. she is still very much with me.

speed

i usta hit it hard in Philly when i was imagining myself as an architect. having been accepted by the Yay-ul Architecture School on a full scholarship i was thinking, well, i'm sort of an artist on the inside, but i need to make a living so maybe something like buildings and shit would do the trick and balance the inner artist with the outer realist. to find out for sure i got a job with Vincent G. Kling and Associates in downtown Philly where i labored over floor plans and carefully etched toilet designs. at night, however, i'd get high on anything i could get my hands on - hash, weed, lsd, mushrooms, peyote, sunflower seeds, meth. loved the double life. a favorite junket was to drop a pill, drive to the airport, park at the end of the runway behind the chain link fence and watch the planes take off and land. the big bellied sky whales lifted your hair and crushed your eardrums. it rocked. or we'd hit up the Electric Factory (a small venue at the time) where i lucked out and saw Hendrix ride a greased pig onto the stage. or Iron Butterfly zone off into a San Francisco twilight. or even Three Dog Night with their hairy chests screaming into the mike. i traipsed up to the skinny androgynous bassist from the west coast band, Spirit, shake his limp hand (a forefinger grazing my palm in code) and gaze like a teenage girl into his mercury eyes. all this got me into the margins at work where i'd sketch 4x8 foot posters (faux Peter Max) and color them in with a fist of psychedelic magic markers. all this led up to my first bad trips on meth. i loved the initial rush, the humorless solve-all-the-problems-of-the-world edge, my heart beating like a bitch in heat. it was great until the inevitable crash. i would denounce to myself all the hot ideas that had only minutes ago seemed brilliant. i hated the sound of my voice. my skin crawled with invisible bugs. my eyes dried out. the only solution would be, though i didn't have any in those days, a sedative or wicked strong weed. more often than not i was stuck sweating it out, long hours of self-loathing and suicidal panic. it did help on cross country drives. who needed sleep? after a brief incarceration in a Santa Barbara jail (for shoplifting) my friend Harlow (flown out from Philly by my infuriated dad) and i drove back to the east coast without a wink, miles high on meth. i don't think we shut up for the entire trip. we solved all the problems of our love lives, poverty, war, inequity on the 2.5 day jaunt. ghostly, skeletal horses galloped alongside my blue panel truck at night. a sabre tooth tiger leaped from a cave, snarling and drooling across the hood. red necks in rest rooms gave us the evil eye. once home, we napped, helplessly fucked up in a 100 mph daze. i gave the shit up soon thereafter only to replace it down the rock n roll road with a coke addiction. it was more glamorous than speed. it was sexy to do, the cutting, shaping, snorting, encrusted mirror. the horny rush would subtract all moral code and inhibition. but that too, like it's white trash pal, would induce a grotesque fall from grace. good and bad times they were, those dark days of infantile fear and loathing.

tits or boobs?

what d' ya call 'em? girls prefer boobs. guys, tits. breasts sound too clinical, too sibilant. knockers are dated. bosoms are too poetic. to me 'boobs' sounds dumb, like water grenades, demeaning in a goofy way and tits are what? smaller? more perky, more upright, hard nippled? on odd occasions i take a sampling, a census. tit's or boobs? i ask. of course there's a thousand Chaucerian options i could look up. i could Google tits to see what's vogue, but i don't. it's all tits all the time far as i'm concerned. how about you? tits or boobs? you already know, don't ya? shout it out.