Dumb

Why is it so hard for me to understand the language, so fucking hard? It seems understandable to most, even to the stupid.

And every moment I can feel the downdraft of the great wings as he comes nearer, be he Michael or Samael.

Please while there is still a little time, let me break free from the spirit of perpetual negation?

For Kindness Unasked

Thank-you Heather, for kindness unasked.

When you are sad, remember you are good.

To My Children

Yesterday evening I sat on a bus, side on to a young woman who was soothing her very young cying baby boy by holding him to her heavy breasts and gently and rythmically shushing and rocking him.

Every now and then he would fall to sleep until a bumping of the bus would wake him, and he would gurgle and cry a little again, and then reach out his little hand towards mine. I wanted very much to let him hold my finger, as I've not had a baby hold my finger since I was a child myself, but I remember what a lovely feeling it is.

At the end of the journey I did a little shopping in Eccles town centre, just before closing time, but was increasingly overcome by thoughts of the children I never had, the children I longed for so much. It was all I could do to contain my distress, with my face changing from frozen to a contortion of grief that I could see other shoppers were noticing.

I couldn't fight down the feeling of loss and despair, and I had to go home where I sobbed uncontrollably for about twenty minutes, starting as soon as I locked my front door.

So, to the children I never had, I am sorry I could not call you into the World. I lacked the words, I lacked the understanding, I lacked the wherewithal, most of all I lacked the strength.

I miss you.

Close Your Eyes and Think of Someone You Physically Admire, and Let Me Kiss You

Oh let me kiss you
but then you open your eyes
and you see someone
that you physically despise
but my heart is open
but my heart is open
to you

Steven Morrissey
"Let Me Kiss You"

Thank you Helen and Claire, not that you will ever read this. It was almost half a human lifetime ago, but thank you for those moments of pleasure, thank you for seeing me as a man, and so letting me be a man for a little while.

Far Away is Close at Hand

I discovered last night that I could take screencaptures of DVDs with one of the programs pre-installed on my poor people's computer.

I extracted frames from "Secretary" from the scenes of Maggie Gyllenhaal having her bottom smacked, as I've found Maggie Gyllenhaal very attractive since I saw her in Donnie Darko along with her brother Jake. It's a physical thing, what she looks like and her acting ability, because, her various political pronouncements suggests she's a bit of a Hollywood flake, and probably a member of F.A.G.

After I'd pulled about 30 frames I burst into tears at the thought of how truly pitiful what I was doing was; I sobbed so hard and hyperventilated so much that I had to fight for breath.

This sadness isn't sadness, it's grief. Grief for myself, for the life I lost by waiting too long, by not understanding the language of attraction, by coping with my frustration in bad and damaging ways. For the thought that nothing of life is now left to me that I would want.

For some years now I've thought I might have some problem related to autism, some kind of social blindness, and I become ever more sure as I look at myself and others.

As I sobbed, the children's hymn "there is a happy land" came into my mind, and indeed there is, and not far away but close at hand, yet all the evidence says it is out of my reach, trapped as I am in this bell jar of damaged health, impotence, and inability to connect.

Over the years my sexual obsessions became more and more tied up with the humiliation of women, but I don't really want to pummel Maggie Gyllenhaal's bum until it's black and blue, nor any woman, all I really want is someone I can spend time with, talk comfortably with, and cuddle now and then.

I met an acquaintance the other day, who explained to me how all he needed to get back to his work as a self-employed gardener after an injury was a second-hand van, but he couldn't afford one. "You know, I'm 55 and I never asked for a lot out of life and I didn't even get that".

I know, mate, I know.

The Giantess Childbride

I've just been walking around Salford and onto the southern edge of Salford Shopping City (the Precinct, Ian, next to what used to be Woolworths) when I saw a very tall and sturdy young woman walking towards me wearing what I can best describe as a short grey sarong and white cotton blouse, with a huge red poppy in her hair just above her left ear. I think it was this way of dress plus her being quite heavily made up that stopped me from realising until it was too late to acknowledge her, that it was the Giantess Childbride. That and her presence on Salford Precinct of all places. God knows how many times I've talked to her and yet I've never found out her real name.

I turned round and started to catch up with her and then realised I would have to follow her past derelict crofts and empty carparks and streets and would end up looking like a rapist.

I know she used to live on Salford Quays, and she was walking in the right direction to get there, and the Metrolink is down for a month so she might just be walking home from work, wherever that is these days.

I've even had erotic dreams about her, in which she was called Mary-Jane, although being American she's just as likely to be called, oh, Madison, or Courtney, or Krystal, or something else laughable.

Not that it matters really, she was only in her twenties and she's married. At my age all the good ones are long married or in relationships, and all that's left are the female versions of me, the ill-favoured, the fat, the misfits, the hapless, the doomed.

I was about to type "where were all the tall women when I was her age?", and then realised what a dumb question that would be given what I've been writing about here lately.

The funny thing is that H has spoken to her, but won't remember her at all, because it was in a shop where the Giantess Childbride was working at the time.

Misogyny

Misogyny? Don't worry, my dear friend in the imaginary pencil skirt, it's really only sour grapes.