A Clockwork Heart
"...he has the appearance of an organism lovely with colour and juice but is in fact only a clockwork toy."
Last evening, I watched "A Clockwork Orange" for the first time. YPB brought it over to my house in response to my assertion that if a movie had been declared "important" or "a cult classic" or even "remotely interesting," I had very likely never seen it. He brought a selection, of which I had seen only "Snatch" and that only because of the best efforts of a hip friend. During the movie, I marvelled at the fact that I could understand Alex's point of view. He committed his acts of Ultra Violence the way I fall in and out of love...mechanically, as a matter of rote. It's simply what he was good at. Being that I have long thought of myself as a person with an attachment disorder when it comes to romantic relationships, I could understand and somewhat applaud the clockwork. Wind me up, point me at a guy and watch me go.
From Thursday to Sunday, I alternated boys...SB Thursday on Thursday, YPB on Friday (and truthfully, straight on through 'til Saturday morning), SB Thursday on Saturday (and truthfully, straight on through 'til Sunday morning) and YPB on Sunday. Saturday, at SB Thursday's party, I was uncharacteristically mellow, and wound up cornering my friend Tony for a game of Gin. Tony is really named Tony. He hasn't disappointed me, but I haven't ever made out with him, so he needs no pseudonym, no reductive nom de guerre. After Gin, I danced a little, but stopped when SB Thursday had separated me from the pack of other dancers and started looking at me like I was a wounded antelope. I wouldn't let myself get culled that night.
At around 3, I begged off, but was trailed out the door by SB Thursday who asked to join me for a grilled cheese and fries at the Diner of the Old Man Who Stops Me Every Day On My Way to Work ("Bob"). At the diner, I swiveled my stool towards SB Thursday and fit myself into the negative space created by the curve of his body. For a moment, I let him shelter me. And it was good. He drove me home and stayed with me, though I wanted nothing more from him than that small moment of closeness in the diner. I did kiss him. I did let him rest his arm on my hip as he slept. That's the least I could do.
YPB and I had a dissimilar evening together yesterday. We only swapped a couple of stories before we began seriously encroaching on each others' personal space. Every time we'd pull back from a kiss, I could see that both of us were thinking the same thing about each other, "Who ARE you?" I like the way his hands feel on my back. I like the expanse of skin between his shoulder and jaw. I like the supposition of physical contact that eases itself into the air between us. But do I like him? Moreover, do I like me when I'm with him?
One day, the springs and cogs that make up my heart will wind down completely, never to run aimlessly toward an unsuspecting man ever again. Or I will simply lose the wind up key and it will sit idle. I don't doubt my ability to love, so much. But I do doubt my ability to love well.
Last evening, I watched "A Clockwork Orange" for the first time. YPB brought it over to my house in response to my assertion that if a movie had been declared "important" or "a cult classic" or even "remotely interesting," I had very likely never seen it. He brought a selection, of which I had seen only "Snatch" and that only because of the best efforts of a hip friend. During the movie, I marvelled at the fact that I could understand Alex's point of view. He committed his acts of Ultra Violence the way I fall in and out of love...mechanically, as a matter of rote. It's simply what he was good at. Being that I have long thought of myself as a person with an attachment disorder when it comes to romantic relationships, I could understand and somewhat applaud the clockwork. Wind me up, point me at a guy and watch me go.
From Thursday to Sunday, I alternated boys...SB Thursday on Thursday, YPB on Friday (and truthfully, straight on through 'til Saturday morning), SB Thursday on Saturday (and truthfully, straight on through 'til Sunday morning) and YPB on Sunday. Saturday, at SB Thursday's party, I was uncharacteristically mellow, and wound up cornering my friend Tony for a game of Gin. Tony is really named Tony. He hasn't disappointed me, but I haven't ever made out with him, so he needs no pseudonym, no reductive nom de guerre. After Gin, I danced a little, but stopped when SB Thursday had separated me from the pack of other dancers and started looking at me like I was a wounded antelope. I wouldn't let myself get culled that night.
At around 3, I begged off, but was trailed out the door by SB Thursday who asked to join me for a grilled cheese and fries at the Diner of the Old Man Who Stops Me Every Day On My Way to Work ("Bob"). At the diner, I swiveled my stool towards SB Thursday and fit myself into the negative space created by the curve of his body. For a moment, I let him shelter me. And it was good. He drove me home and stayed with me, though I wanted nothing more from him than that small moment of closeness in the diner. I did kiss him. I did let him rest his arm on my hip as he slept. That's the least I could do.
YPB and I had a dissimilar evening together yesterday. We only swapped a couple of stories before we began seriously encroaching on each others' personal space. Every time we'd pull back from a kiss, I could see that both of us were thinking the same thing about each other, "Who ARE you?" I like the way his hands feel on my back. I like the expanse of skin between his shoulder and jaw. I like the supposition of physical contact that eases itself into the air between us. But do I like him? Moreover, do I like me when I'm with him?
One day, the springs and cogs that make up my heart will wind down completely, never to run aimlessly toward an unsuspecting man ever again. Or I will simply lose the wind up key and it will sit idle. I don't doubt my ability to love, so much. But I do doubt my ability to love well.
posted by Unknown at 10:50 AM
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