The Nunnery

The rumors are true. I am on a hiatus....from dating. Actually, it is more of a step back, a retreat, a run for the hills, a call to arms of thyself....

What I find most fascinating about this experiment of solitude, is the withdrawals, the way my mind is coping with not having an overwhelming amount of testosterone at my disposal. 

For instance, I now find babies extremely cute, and I am not talking toddlers, or pre-schoolers, those guys I will always adore because they have no filter, and are just blessedly all over the place. Little people after my own heart. But babies...no...way. Squealing, squiggly, squirmy, poopy things that stick out their tongues way too much. I just don't get them, and thus have never had a desire to have one. The closest I ever got to the idea of motherhood was coming up with awesome names for my future progeny. So far I have: Indio, Peregrine, Ksenia, Zoie, Gemma, Holster, Holden, and Clay....but lately, LATELY...I see people with their newborns, and I think, "Oh my god I want my own little glo worm." The lack of letting men into my 6-18 inch personal space has spiked my estrogen levels so much it is beginning to affect the way I view procreation, and this is an unsettling development in the world of everything me. 

Then there are the dreams. I have always been a vivid dreamer, and they can range from prophetic type of dreams, to nightmares, to fuzzy dreams that make one wake up with a smile. Lately I seem to be getting all three rolled up into one. Recently I dreamed that a clown broke into my house and proceeded to make-out with me (granted he was a hot man in clown makeup, and I know he was hot because I washed off his make-up in a steamy shower scene, and the conversation, "Oh my god you are so hot" and "I hide behind the clown makeup so people won't know the real me," actually ensued). I mean, clowns are suppose to be terrifying (especially to people in their 30s, I don't know why this phenomena exists, but it does), and even though I have never been all that terrified of them, I have been terrified by how atrocious their makeup is, those red lips with the white makeup...ugh, it's like a corpse trying to reanimate its own flesh...but now, NOW, I probably just developed a new clown fetish, all thanks to my deprivation of the male species. My fantasies are now reaching out to the strange recesses of my perversions, and what they came up with, were clowns.

I have also started viewing the way I interact with people, very differently. This digital medium we use to communicate is killing the tangible connections; even as I write this on my computer, to post to a social media site, I realize my own folly. But I am trying to bring back the small things that made so much more sense to me when I was younger. For instance, the romance of life. I pressed flowers the other day because it just seemed so right. I have lit candles instead of turning on lights, taken bubble baths full of mostly bubbles, ridden my bike with my arms open to the sky down forgotten paths full of overgrown city flowers; I have contemplated the ocean waves, and started reading through old poetry books again. It’s almost austenian of me. More than anything, I have this desire to write people, actually write people a goddamn authentic letter, and holy hell I forgot how much it can cramp one's hand to write a three page letter...but afterwards, when I fold it up, and place the already outdated stamp on it, there is a sense of euphoric bliss, because it is something I created, and conceived, and it is imperfectly spelled, and scratched out, and ink blotted, but it is authentic, it is me. These are the things that are sticking to my psyche lately. Perhaps it is the estrogen speaking, or perhaps it's the magic being introduced back into my mind, the magic that for a time was tempered by digital means. The quantity of choices over the quality of choices.

The response from friends and family has also been interesting. The same line that usually surfaces is, "Good for you, one needs to find themselves before they can find others," and I suppose this is the heart of the matter. Peeling back my own layers now, and finding not only old, but new pieces of me...but clowns, subconscious, that was unexpected.

Don't Mind the Elephant Online.

Song of the day: Social Studies, Terracur http://vimeo.com/51597619

So I have a pattern when it comes to dating.

I basically online stalk, I will fully disclose this.

Though, in my defense, I have been a catfish victim (aka fallen for a false identity online). And once you see what is really behind the Oz curtain, you end up becoming an obsessive information gatherer, worried that the person you are communicating with is just another illusion. Plus in this day and age, with Facebook and Instagram, it makes it incredibly easy to view into the looking glass. Although, while this can inundate one with the overwhelming world of candid polaroid like photos that make everyone seem like a darling at heart (or a derelict, depending on how many booze shots one comes across), it can also open the nasty world of conjecture.

One of the things, that seems to keep popping up in this magical place of I-probably-shouldn't-know-about-this, are ex photos.  Those glorious old photos that remain of the once burned out loves, beholden in all their I-once-loved-this-person-with-my-whole-being-eyes still shining through the photos. To say the least, they are incredibly uncomfortable things to stumble upon. They remind me of the Native American's that use to frequent my bookstore who would pretend to click a camera in my direction and joke they were stealing my soul. Of course I was 8, and believed anything that came out of their mouths. But seeing these photos, I am thoroughly convinced as an adult, that this is true.

Love stolen, for a moment, within a shutter click, and the remains littered over social media.

And with the litter comes the mind burning questions. Why did they break up? Where were they in that photo? Was she the one? Who broke up with whom? etc etc etc....and of course my imaginative mind, just runs amok at this point.

Now see, when I break up with someone, I go through this purging process. No, it's not like I am outside burning the remains in a metal trashcan. Though, sometimes these thoughts do go through my head. Ha. No. This is the 21st online century, I simply, delete them. I delete their phone numbers, I delete their emails, I unfriend, and unfollow, and so on and so forth. And if there is something that made it into the real world scenario, I simply collect every single scrap, and return it to them, most graciously mind you, so that I have nothing left.

My girlfriends often say I am crazy, that they like holding on to the paraphernalia. That they like to reminisce over the things that once were, or could have been, if only (dot dot dot). So they hold on to that teddy bear, those pair of earrings, that postcard, the seashell found, or the shirt that still smells like the ex. I, on the other hand, don't want to remember any of these things. Though, truth be told, I did hold on to some love letters from a Frenchman who use to hand sew me letters about his day...but he was French...and thus allowed to be a romantic AND a cad; and those letters are more of a cry of what I still expect, even if that sets up future men to fail, I still long for the day of chivalry and romance (and ok, a dash of cad). But this is not why a majority of females hold on to things from their exes, they hold on to them in the hopes that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps there will be some gloriously amorous resolution. It's a revelation that at one point, someone loved them. We have all seen the "Notebook", and now everyone wants the goddamn"Notebook" (or "Shades of Gray", but that is a whole other level of frackery).

In some way it seems men also hold on to these digital memories, by playing the, "I haven't gotten around to deleting it" card, because they too are like my girlfriends....I guess in the online world, both sexes still hold on to the idea of make believe. Regardless, for the new person in the equation, it just becomes fodder for an overactive imagination.

I think I just took a Nap

Urban dictionary definition of a Douchebag: "The term "douchebag" generally refers to a male with a certain combination of obnoxious characteristics related to attitude, social ineptitude, public behavior, or outward presentation."

I am going to let you all in on a little secret.  I am a douchebag collector.

I have collected all types, all colors, all shapes, and all sizes. The good ones are like a fine wine, they build on your pallete, until wham, you are overcome by the sheer audacity of their make up. The one thing that I can always count on with these types, is they never disappoint; and I am not talking about their crushing ineptness of having a moral fabric when it comes to matters of the heart, I am talking about how awesomely entertaining they are to reminisce about. They are a don quixote quest. They are the Moby Dicks to my Captain Ahab (And not literally moby dicks, because men with three arms need to steer clear of my dating circumference).

...but this post is not about these types. No this is about the exact opposite of these types:

The boring guy.

The snooze.

The sleepwalker.

The ho hum man.

Mr. Complacent.

Now this new guy, who I shall call Rip Van Winkle, or Mr. Winkle for short (teehee), put up quite a good show, but perhaps that was his modus operandi. He was an artist, and as you all know from my past posts, I have a thing for the creative types, and he was relatively successful at what he did. So we set up a date to meet.

First thing to note: We decide on a bar.

Second thing to note: When I arrive at the bar, he is drinking water, because he does not drink. Oh goodie.

Third thing to note: I order myself a drink, and sit down to this gent drinking water. Our conversation is such:

Me "Hello"

Mr. Winkle "Hi"

Me "Nice to finally meet you"

Mr. Winkle "Same here"

-crickets-

At this point, I have slurped down my cheap drink and throughly people watched the entire room for about ten minutes. His water has also been finished off, and he goes for a refill, when he comes back I try to come up with whatever tidbits of conversation I can muster:

Me "So you are an artist"

M.W "Yup"

Me "Tell me more about it, what do you focus on, what do you do?"

M.W "Um, it's hard to explain"

Me "??"

M.W "Well like my current project is focusing on an existing vending machine. I want to make a commentary on the vending machine"

In my head, "Ohhhhh you are one of THOSE artists"

What I really said, "ohkaaaaay???"

Mr. W "Well like, I am going to shine a bunch of fluorescent tube lights on it, all around it, so it becomes a focal point, so that people notice it"

Me "Oh, so you are doing a light installation?"

Mr. W "Well no, it is more than that"

Me "How is it more than that?"

Mr. W "Well I just don't like the word installation, it devalues what I do in the art world, the piece is about societies focus on the vending machine"

Me "Like Duchamp's toilet?"

Mr. W "No more than that!"

Me"..."

Mr. W "Its just a piece best not described, but experienced."

In my head "So not only are you boring, you have been drowned in artist jargon to explain away how boring you truly are. Money well spent." 

Me "..."

Mr. W "You are obviously viewing it as an architect, if you viewed it as an artist, as is taught in graduate school, I think you would realize more fully where I am coming from"

In my head "Oh no he didn't! -snap my fingers in his face moment about to happen-"

Me "Yes, let us talk about the difference between our worlds. Now granted, I play in the architect-turned-artist world, and you play in the I-am-a-graduate-student-artist world, so according to you the word "installation" is implied differently between our worlds; but I am sorry, if you, or any other artist, wants to dip your toes into my world, well I am going to call a spade a spade. Hanging lights, or using elements of the built world to emphasize a discussion best be done in a way that does not look like you just went to home depot and hung a bunch of lights...along with the vending machine, at the very least, rethink the light, if it is going to be so inclusive, otherwise, your piece of "art" work is going to get called an installation, from the architect aka layperson like me, no matter how much you diction it to be the next coming of christ."

At this point,  I should have had a "what would meryl streep do?" moment, which would have been to dramatically say "thank you sir, and good day" and trollop on out of there. Instead, I continue to listen to him fumble. I am a sadist at heart.

Mr. W "Um, so what is your sign?"

Inside my head "oh my god, it has come to this" 

Me "I am a pisces/aquarius"

Mr. W "Oh really me too!"

Inside my head "Well hold on now, suddenly this has become a tad intriguing"

Me "Really? When is your birthday?"

Mr. W "Feb 20th"

Me "Holy crap, MY birthday is Feb 20th"

Mr. W "Ha, maybe you are the female equivalent to me, or maybe we are soul twins"

Me "Well, you know, there can be only one!"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "It's a quote from highlander"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "You dont know highlander? It is a scifi movie from the 80s, Sean Connery...Christopher Lambert..."

Mr. W "No, i dont like scifi."

Me "Well look at the time..."

Mr W "Yes perhaps we should go..."

Fourth thing to note: Go ahead and attack my lack of an art education, but to not like scifi!!...nope. Straw that broke that camel's back.

The date lasted 30 minutes. Give or take a minute. It was the shortest most god awful insultingly boring dates I have ever been on.  After lamenting to my girlfriends for hours about how well rested I now was, I get a final text from Mr. Winkle "That wasn't a disaster, you did great." 

AHAHAHAHAHA. Priceless. My collection groweth.