Sunday, October 22, 2006

Strange Currencies

I'm home from a night of revelry amongst the glitterati of the Portland social scene. The movers and the shakers of what tomorrow brings are never as larger-than-life as they seem in print. Random firings of my cerebral cortex fill my mind to distraction, as is the way of things at this hour in the morning when I should be well ensconced in the protective bunker of my bed sheets.

Is it unethical to sleep with my boss, whom I'm dangerously attracted to, so long as I make it abundantly clear that I would be mortally offended should our mutual gratification cause any change for the better (or worse) in my work schedule.

I think about the man with whom I'm madly in love with. I imagine the two of us wrinkled and satisfied, reminiscing about days gone by and both knowing that we've made the right choice in sticking it out through thick and thin. Is what I feel (and truly believe in the core of my being that he feels too) enough to last us into our dotage even though he's several states and degrees of social perception removed from me?

Is it wrong to be a drunken make-out whore? Do I demean myself by enjoying what the moment presents? Or am I simply adhering to a sexual revolution that I fear is meeting it's death at the hands of a generation that was raised ignorant of the prudish values that made that sort of destructive social anarchy a necessity for the evolution of the American psyche?

Will I ever truly make good on the promise of the talents given to me by my forebearers? Or will I simply allow myself to slip into hubris and result in nothing as so many have before me? I was born with so much more than obscurity inside of me, I need to be true to that.

When all is said and done, I think I've made the best choices that I knew how given the circumstances. Why, then, do I still feel sadness over the way certain threads of my life have developed thus far? Perhaps I need to take my own advice and look at my life from the perspective of several hundred years, rather than the paltry handful of decades that we are all given.

I know I've faced the reality that my mother, to whom I will always look up to because she is human and fallible rather than being an uplifted Saint, will some day die. Am I kidding myself that I can take the visceral fact of it with quiet dignity? Or will I collapse, blubbering, into the arms of any friend that will take me, when the time finally comes and she moves on to whatever comes after the heart stills and the breath grows cold?

Like I said, it's late at night, and Jagermeister is a harsh and unfathomable master. This, children, is why I generally stick to Jack Daniels. He's a surly, cantankerous lout; but at least he's simple in his motives.

PS: On the existential note: Is that smell me, or have I missed a corner of my room in my semi-annual cleaning cycle? Whatever it is, "musky" is a rather generous word.

1 Comments:

Blogger rainstreak said...

The rawness of your introspection is refreshing. Even at four in the morning coming down from jager the dialogue with your spirit resonates of honesty and wisdom. Don't change a hair.

7:25 PM, October 23, 2006  

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