pb

desultory thoughts:


i realized today i haven't touched/been touched by another human being in weeks. no wonder my skin crawls with some sort of ravenous hunger which serves to drive me sort of insane. i've never made any bones about being a loner, but i still crave some measure of tactile brush on an almost constant basis.

sometimes i feel invisible. especially to women. the girls around me walk by [glance up/contact/glance down quick!] and pretend they didn't see me. i'm sized up, weighed, poked and prodded with expectations and dreams, found wanting, and summarily discarded in the space of two annoying filp-flap-sounds of their flip-flop-shoes. they mutter a hurried, unintelligible something-or-other as i hold open the door for them while the cool ac air blows across my frame and into the soggy outside world. they hurry by, intent on their next move [get away before he talks to you!]. i feel so invisible. can you see me? where am i? did i not bring myself to this place?

i'm noticed when its time to pay for my coffee or potato gallete, or if i'm standing in front of the row of books written lovingly by their favorite author or if i've accidentally bumped into them on the subway or or or or or or any other myriad ways where i'm just a lump of walking flesh between them and their true desires.

nameless, faceless, i'm just the lone white male in the corner, book in hand and dinner forgotten. in their eyes they see------------the threat of the quiet loner, the ice blue eyed serial rapist or killer or highwayman or crazy talker who'll flip out on them if given the opening of a courteous 'hi.' i am the late twenties single guy who just wouldn't be alone unless there was something gravely wrong. i am to them the narcissist, the elitist, the misogynist, lover of dark fantasies and strange tales no wholesome blonde, rich, all-american country-club man would entertain. i am the solitary stroller on the sidewalk whom they cross the street to avoid after dark; just because a healthy, burly, intense-faced man walking under the trees at night can't be innocuous. he just cant be-----------

i feel their trepidation like jittery sparks around me and i don't know why. maybe it is of my own making, my own projections. i am none of those things. i only want to read my books and enjoy my lunch and walk the summer nights watching the bats and thinking about Lovecraft and maybe, perhaps maybe one night, glance up to find an open smile or winking eye or small wave saying--------

hey there, i see you. you're real. you're harmless and strange and intriguing. you look a bit pained and intense and kind of lonely. your hands are calloused but deft on those pages and you really could use a girl to help pick out your clothes better. ill bet you have nothing but beer and condiments in your coolerator. you want to buy a girl a cup of coffee?"

i'd just like a smile and a soft hand and girlish scents to share my solitude with.



-pb