Steven Hunley
05-17-2011, 10:41 AM
Much Adieu about Nothing? I don’t think so.
by
Steven Hunley
We broke up. It had to be. Now I’m beginning to feel, and in this order: sad, detached, morose, and blue. Maybe black too. Maybe both.
That’s it-
She black-and-blued me with her truth. She could have been Joe Louis.
So I’m tore up. That’s what happens when I get kicked out of a woman’s bed. I get tore up. I feel tore up and I know if I look in the mirror, I’ll look the same way. Dismembered. Disemboweled. All that icky stuff.
But considering:
To her I was a Bad Boy, had “an edge”, was a threat. The effect I had on her was heady, a thrill, something she could take in only small doses. Nothing you’d feed your baby for a steady diet.
Or yourself for that matter.
To her I was Mellors her game keeper. “A swift menace” was Mellors. D.H. knew his type, my type too.
And she was my Lady Chatterley, with her place in the country, her gentrified manners. I was her Mellors, “Like a sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere.”
That sort of thing.
I should have listened to Lawrence in the first place. I thought men and women were equal as far as love went. Love and giving it up. But no.
“But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving.”
My trouble is I’ve got a Heart of Darkness built-in. I understand Conrad and how he brings certain sadness to your soul. My D.H.is mixed in with my Conrad. I’m a hell of a brew.
At first it didn’t show. At first she regarded me as,
“... the sergeant
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!”
Straight outta Macbeth.
She was the loneliest woman I’d ever met. Surrounded by friends but so friendless. She turned inward and was so self-sufficient. I broke down the stones of her citadel one by one just to get to her. Just to see what she was like. At that point she showed so much promise.
But then it turned tragic.
She smelled me out for who I was. Wrong sort of fellow. User and abuser. Bad Company kind of bloke. Not the music she wanted to hear. Too Tough To Talk kind of guy.
Sometimes I think.
Our love-affair was inflated as easily as children’s soap bubbles, and just as immature.
Buoyed upward by sensuous adventures, then promises, then whispered words.
We soared.
Drifting on gusts of Great Expectations, and like poor Pip, always begging, “for more.”
And in the end, our erotic affair, as easily burst. Staining the tapestry of our lives.
But then I consider,
Our lives are so overly dramatized, so unrealistic, so overwritten you wish you could close the book on them. You can’t. You’re a prisoner of the written word. That’s how D.H. got Frida, the Red Barron’s sister.
He wooed her with words.
That’s how I first snared Mathide. I wooed her with words too.
My mistake.
That’s why I’m tore up. I miss her you see. I feel guilty. She’s probably tore up too. She says she is.
Either way I can’t take it. There are only two cures.
Psychoanalysis, or a plump ripe little waitress who can’t get enough.
One or the other. But I’m trying to “buck-up.” “ Stiff upper lip” and all that.
Until:
Surfing the net the other day I came upon her face. She’s got her mug all over the net. But now she looks different. She cut her bangs and Oh My God; she looks like Jane Seymour the actress. Known as a natural beauty and all. OMG. I just got kicked out of the sack by Jane Seymour!
She now possesses movie-star type glamour.
She even sent me a lock of her hair.
No more, when I’m with The Boys and they ask me, “What’s up with your girlfriend?” will I be able to answer, “Oh, I booted her out. I kicked her to the curb. Look her latest picture. See how tore-up she is?”
No, none of that now.
I’m down-fallen again. I’m a broken man. I gotta fix me.
To the library I go, every day for a month. It’s a mile away and it’s hot and the books are heavy. The trip is quite a sweaty workout. I read books on rejection and depression like;
“How to Handle Rejection.” by Freud, and various unpublished writers of fiction.
On my way home with a large pile of more psycho-analytic bull**** under my arm I notice:
My arm.
There’s something about my arm. My watchband. My Wenger Swiss Military stainless steel watchband is loose on my arm. It’s hanging like a bracelet on the wrist of a Swiss faggot.
I go home and take a shower. In the shower is where I get all my good ideas. The shower possesses clarity of sorts. I remember that when my watchband slips down it means I’ve lost weight. I get on the scale.
“I’m what?”
I’m not five, but I’m at least ten pounds lighter!
Her shedding and shredding me has affected my appetite and so has the walking. I look in the mirror and my belly is gone. What’s those little shapes there under the skin? It’s those Abs they talk about on television all the time! It’s the new-improved me looking back.
OMG OMG. It’s like some sort of revenge or equaling-out of events. And I didn’t ninja it myself. It’s not of my doing. Nature did it. Sweet as corn syrup. It’s Nature taking care of one of her own. Me.
And the fat greasy waitress is out of the picture.
I feel better already. For both of us. For both Mathilde and I, I feel better.
I think the issue is resolved.
Flash-forward two weeks---
There’s a full moon coming up and it’s close to her birthday.
I’m still her Mellors no matter what she says and I’m still a Bad Boy and I’ve still got “my edge”. In fact, being without her made it sharper than ever. I’m a man of action, that’s what I am. And I’ve still got that lock of her hair.
I’ve discovered a third cure.
I’m gathering up my supplies. There’s my white candle, my carving knife, and my bottle of rum. Never liked rum much, lucky I don’t have to swallow the stuff, only blow it back out. There’s the white chicken and next to it is the axe, all sharp and shiny.
This is going to be messy. It’s time to visit the dark side. Time to move heaven and earth to do what needs to be done. That other place too. You know which one.
And here’s the copy I just got from the library, “Voodoo made Simple for Idiots.”
A zombie girl-friend is better than no girl-friend at all you have to admit.
I’ll do anything for love’s sake. That’s just the kind of guy I am.
Romantic.
by
Steven Hunley
We broke up. It had to be. Now I’m beginning to feel, and in this order: sad, detached, morose, and blue. Maybe black too. Maybe both.
That’s it-
She black-and-blued me with her truth. She could have been Joe Louis.
So I’m tore up. That’s what happens when I get kicked out of a woman’s bed. I get tore up. I feel tore up and I know if I look in the mirror, I’ll look the same way. Dismembered. Disemboweled. All that icky stuff.
But considering:
To her I was a Bad Boy, had “an edge”, was a threat. The effect I had on her was heady, a thrill, something she could take in only small doses. Nothing you’d feed your baby for a steady diet.
Or yourself for that matter.
To her I was Mellors her game keeper. “A swift menace” was Mellors. D.H. knew his type, my type too.
And she was my Lady Chatterley, with her place in the country, her gentrified manners. I was her Mellors, “Like a sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere.”
That sort of thing.
I should have listened to Lawrence in the first place. I thought men and women were equal as far as love went. Love and giving it up. But no.
“But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving.”
My trouble is I’ve got a Heart of Darkness built-in. I understand Conrad and how he brings certain sadness to your soul. My D.H.is mixed in with my Conrad. I’m a hell of a brew.
At first it didn’t show. At first she regarded me as,
“... the sergeant
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought
'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!”
Straight outta Macbeth.
She was the loneliest woman I’d ever met. Surrounded by friends but so friendless. She turned inward and was so self-sufficient. I broke down the stones of her citadel one by one just to get to her. Just to see what she was like. At that point she showed so much promise.
But then it turned tragic.
She smelled me out for who I was. Wrong sort of fellow. User and abuser. Bad Company kind of bloke. Not the music she wanted to hear. Too Tough To Talk kind of guy.
Sometimes I think.
Our love-affair was inflated as easily as children’s soap bubbles, and just as immature.
Buoyed upward by sensuous adventures, then promises, then whispered words.
We soared.
Drifting on gusts of Great Expectations, and like poor Pip, always begging, “for more.”
And in the end, our erotic affair, as easily burst. Staining the tapestry of our lives.
But then I consider,
Our lives are so overly dramatized, so unrealistic, so overwritten you wish you could close the book on them. You can’t. You’re a prisoner of the written word. That’s how D.H. got Frida, the Red Barron’s sister.
He wooed her with words.
That’s how I first snared Mathide. I wooed her with words too.
My mistake.
That’s why I’m tore up. I miss her you see. I feel guilty. She’s probably tore up too. She says she is.
Either way I can’t take it. There are only two cures.
Psychoanalysis, or a plump ripe little waitress who can’t get enough.
One or the other. But I’m trying to “buck-up.” “ Stiff upper lip” and all that.
Until:
Surfing the net the other day I came upon her face. She’s got her mug all over the net. But now she looks different. She cut her bangs and Oh My God; she looks like Jane Seymour the actress. Known as a natural beauty and all. OMG. I just got kicked out of the sack by Jane Seymour!
She now possesses movie-star type glamour.
She even sent me a lock of her hair.
No more, when I’m with The Boys and they ask me, “What’s up with your girlfriend?” will I be able to answer, “Oh, I booted her out. I kicked her to the curb. Look her latest picture. See how tore-up she is?”
No, none of that now.
I’m down-fallen again. I’m a broken man. I gotta fix me.
To the library I go, every day for a month. It’s a mile away and it’s hot and the books are heavy. The trip is quite a sweaty workout. I read books on rejection and depression like;
“How to Handle Rejection.” by Freud, and various unpublished writers of fiction.
On my way home with a large pile of more psycho-analytic bull**** under my arm I notice:
My arm.
There’s something about my arm. My watchband. My Wenger Swiss Military stainless steel watchband is loose on my arm. It’s hanging like a bracelet on the wrist of a Swiss faggot.
I go home and take a shower. In the shower is where I get all my good ideas. The shower possesses clarity of sorts. I remember that when my watchband slips down it means I’ve lost weight. I get on the scale.
“I’m what?”
I’m not five, but I’m at least ten pounds lighter!
Her shedding and shredding me has affected my appetite and so has the walking. I look in the mirror and my belly is gone. What’s those little shapes there under the skin? It’s those Abs they talk about on television all the time! It’s the new-improved me looking back.
OMG OMG. It’s like some sort of revenge or equaling-out of events. And I didn’t ninja it myself. It’s not of my doing. Nature did it. Sweet as corn syrup. It’s Nature taking care of one of her own. Me.
And the fat greasy waitress is out of the picture.
I feel better already. For both of us. For both Mathilde and I, I feel better.
I think the issue is resolved.
Flash-forward two weeks---
There’s a full moon coming up and it’s close to her birthday.
I’m still her Mellors no matter what she says and I’m still a Bad Boy and I’ve still got “my edge”. In fact, being without her made it sharper than ever. I’m a man of action, that’s what I am. And I’ve still got that lock of her hair.
I’ve discovered a third cure.
I’m gathering up my supplies. There’s my white candle, my carving knife, and my bottle of rum. Never liked rum much, lucky I don’t have to swallow the stuff, only blow it back out. There’s the white chicken and next to it is the axe, all sharp and shiny.
This is going to be messy. It’s time to visit the dark side. Time to move heaven and earth to do what needs to be done. That other place too. You know which one.
And here’s the copy I just got from the library, “Voodoo made Simple for Idiots.”
A zombie girl-friend is better than no girl-friend at all you have to admit.
I’ll do anything for love’s sake. That’s just the kind of guy I am.
Romantic.