Delirium Days, Part 2

Well hello, friend. Seven here. Seeing as how it’s Friday, and on this day we here at PPNL like to frowback, I’ve submitted below for your contemplation another excerpt from my depressing past. Harken if you will back to the early 2000s when this now happy-go-lucky lothario lived a life of tenuous, seething solitude. Back in LA, in the prison they call “America.” When wine was plentiful, and women slipped through my fingers like grease off the end of a pizza slice (I’m eating a Gallery artichoke capri at the moment). At the time of writing the following whiny diatribe (whinatribe for short, copyright BKK7), I was pining (and whining) for a lovely lass who had no interest in me whatsoever. So I substituted her absence of enamorment with wine—an apt pairing with a whine—and drunkenly excreted the following. If it looks familiar, it means you read another recent frowback, wherein I posted it in the context of what I do with my idle time when I can’t get laid.

“Friday, April 08, 2005. Current mood:  indescribable

Angels’ Share

The shiraz in my glass is named for a story about the monks who first made it. They put the juice into barrels to age, and months later, when they came to check on it, there was less in the barrels. Now, we know that’s because of evaporation, but the poor monks, in their medieval ignorance, thought that God had sent the angels down to take some back to heaven. Hence the name “Angels’ Share.”

I stand on the periphery wondering, am I being noticed? A furtive glance, a stolen moment. A thought skating across my cognitive landscape like a phantom–is it detectable? Am I even on the radar screen? I slip into this darkness like a wallflower from a party, like a flasher into the alley. . .who is documenting this? When will the other shoe drop? Did I say shoe? I meant flip-flop. The angels want their share, yes, when do they not, but what if I don’t want to give up even a handful of this? What if I think it’s all mine, kept safely in my mind, the mines in the mine of my mind?

Painters, paint your colors. You don’t know me. I work in black and white. No wait. What am I saying? I’m hiding in the grays. You know me, don’t you? You know I’m talking to you, you and no one else. The eyes that read this fall short, fail short, but you, you, sweet unembraceable you, the broken rule, the exception, the unruly. You know, don’t you? Your eyes see it, though it is not there. Your heart speeds up, though I am walking away. My deliberate gaze everywhere but where you are. You see that, don’t you?

The clock is ticking. Yes, yes, I hear it, the metronome of my stupid palindrome. It ticks off the time we have left. It ticks off my last few moments of youth. It ticks me off daily. It measures out the bricks (the ticks) separating you from me. I’m not one for breaking down walls. I am one for staring at them, at their unwavering power. I am one for painting on their surface the subtle regrets of my uninspired non-aspirations. You can’t hear me, but I can smell your skin as if there was a yesterday, even though there’s not even a tomorrow, and an imagined doting, swooning, courting, loving, heart-breaking never occurs but for what I’ve painted on the backward facing face of this wall. This nothing. This dream within a dream within my sad, dark, ashamed and broken self. The angels can have it. I’m all too willing to share.

Could I say I love you? Would that be prudent? Would you cringe, and force a smile, and change the subject? Is my played-out fantasy better than that humiliation? Most likely. In fact, truth be told, I am better served in thinking that this is a mutual secret regret of ours that will never see the light of day than dare to dream that the taste of your kiss could be what I dream it to be–what I know it to be–and yet never know it for me.”

Man, was I a pathetic little bitch back then or what? And poetic and melodramatic (pathelopoetic, copyright BKK7). I remember that guy–my former self. He was so desperately lonesome, so ready to give everything in exchange for the companionship of a good woman. I’ve since learned not to care, and having no heart has caused all such yearning to fall by the wayside. Ironically, I’m now steeped in poontang. Seven’s situation has definitively improved in numerous ways since that dark, doomed time. The wine is worse. God knows the Thais need to learn not to leave the bottles in the heat. But everything else is much, much better, not the least of which is the caliber of the female company I keep. Speaking of, there’s one getting undressed and into my bed right now, so I must be off. Swing by on Sunday for the weekly, and here’s hoping the rest of your week goes as nakedly tantalizing as mine. Cheers, everyone.