so, here it is again.
"I don't even want to write anything today. It'll just be forced and ill-considered. Besides, I should already be in the shower."
I'm a sociopath. Or so a friend told me last night. I was telling him that I seem to relate to everything sexually, as if there are no other motivations, no other passions, no other function for me, or you. All things are sexual, otherwise they are dismissable as inamimate objects. This would include most women.
Emotional intercourse never occurs for me but through a template of sex. Even then it is hardly emotional, for that is the purpose of the 'sex template'; to filter-out all the genuine, slippery, gets-into-everything emotion and replace it with neat and interchangeable packets of sex.
Of course this is not the way life really works. If it were, little boys could be fucked happily by old men, and the little boys would forever remain unaffected, growing up and living their lives productively engaged in the busy transfer of sex packets.
at first she seemed stoic. Not a particularly attractive woman, rather plain. But now as I look back, I can see that her stoicism was from a certain pain, borne with remarkable bravery. She spoke normally, her lips moved as expected, there was no stress apparent in her voice. Her words described her children on a Mother's Day spent in a high school cafeteria in Santa Fe, New Mexico, near Los Alamos, where their home was among hundreds destroyed by fire.
When she began to speak, I thought she was a woman of dignity and self-posession, lacking in emotion. Her feelings seemed a little too tightly disciplined. She was the polar opposite of the blithering hysterics who often appear in front of the news camera. But behind her expressionless eyes lay a quiet disaster, a knowledge of terror that had come too close. When it emerged, it revealed her soul.
She calmly talked of things her children had lost in the fire, saying that they would miss them, "...but they have what's important, they..." And there she stopped, as her composure slowly broke. She closed her eyes, and at first it seemed that the wave of emotion would subside. Then her facial expression fell gently into a soft weep, and she turned for a moment, "I'm sorry," she said. But we stayed with her. Through tears she went on to say her children are alive and well, and that's all that really matters. I don't recall exactly how she said that, or what words she used, partly because my food was ready. I was standing at the take-out counter, watching CNN on the TV in a chinese restaurant. Also, I was crying.
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