NAVIGATING THE SHALLOWS SEVERAL STOREYS UP

It's been obvious for as long as I can remember that my sense of humour and my interests not only do NOT coincide very much with those of other people, but also baffle the crap out of them, sometimes even frighten them.
Poor fragile little dears.

Bear in mind that I like people. As an abstract concept. I just don't get along with them.
It's like all of humanity landed here from a different planet.
And why DO they insist on speaking?

Yesterday evening I again tried to have a discussion with other people in the bar. An utterly moronic move, seeing as I should know by now that as an individual I am kindly tolerated only after folks have gotten used to me. Which is a process that takes months if not years.
Until then, I am the wild animal you should never feed.
Don't poke him with a stick, he may bite.

Me, bite? You can count on it!

I enjoy the society of humans. But I like it much better when I don't actually have to talk to them. Which, in a crowded establishment, is a status-quo that proves impossible to maintain.
Those two prize exemplars spoke to me first. They started the conversation, so they should bear full responsibility for it.
Just the fact that I was breathing through my nose might have proven to them that we had nothing in common.
Nothing. At. Frikkin'. ALL!


It was not always like that.

No, I probably never had anything in common with them years ago, either.

But back then, Savage Kitten and I were still lovers, companions of the heart, and co-conspirators. There was someone to talk to and listen to, someone whose company was a happy prospect to which I looked forward. Think of it as a social safety mechanism. Being in a relationship softens the edges of the interpersonal gears. It provides support, understanding, amelioration, and healing.
That's just one of those normal things that have fallen by the wayside.

Savage Kitten spent all of yesterday with Wheelie Boy. I saw her briefly in the morning before she left, briefly again long after dark when she returned. Her smile upon seeing me was radiant. She is the warmest person I know.
But I get almost none of her time anymore.
We're just roommates now.
Today she went off to see Wheelie Boy before noon, and she won't be back till late.
She'll likely be tired, and go straight to bed.

[Yes, I'm spending the day hiding out thirteen floors above the Financial District. I like it here. Unlike the apartment, the office is a nicer place when no one else is around.]


On very rare occasions, Savage Kitten and I eat together, maybe once every six or seven weeks.
But we no longer cook for each other, and because there is no-one to share food with I usually slap together a bowl of muck and call it quits.
There's no point in preparing something delicious when I'm the only one who will eat it.

[Let's see, what did I have for lunch today? Shrimp rice sheet noodle, and a flaky charsiu pastry. With some of the worst coffee in Chinatown. That is not too different from lunch yesterday, which was a flaky charsiu pastry and a lowpoh bing. Also with some of the worst coffee in Chinatown. Sad that 'worst coffee' is not only a metaphor!]

Given that food is well-nigh tasteless without a dinner companion, I spend an illogical amount of time thinking about what to eat.
The Chinese restaurant down the street? Naaah, not interested. Vietnamese? No, I'd sit at one of those tables with no one to talk to while waiting for the cold rice noodles and grilled pork. The seafood place? Expensive dining by oneself is pathetic. Pizza? Did that two weeks ago. And three weeks ago. Mexican? Doesn't inspire me. Crepes? Can't go there anymore, 'we' used to eat there. Besides, she apparently took him there a few months ago, so the place is off limits now, it's lost all positive connotation. Thai restaurant? Don't feel like eating an entire portion of anything, and those two have eaten there together - see previous loss of positive connotation.
Heck, the portion-too-large and positive-connotation-too-lost paradigms hold for almost anywhere on Polk Street where I used to enjoy dining. Apparently he also likes the food at her favourite roast-meats place on the edge of C'town, so I've taken a scunner to them too. Unfair, I know - their quality is very high - but it now has an exclusionary colouration to it.
Our places are no longer my places.

On the bright side, Wheelie Boy isn't comfortable inside Chinatown. Crowded sidewalks, rushing pedestrians, restaurants he fears might give him food poisoning.
Plus sloping cross-streets, comestibles he doesn't recognize, locations that are entirely foreign to him, dazed tourists who get in everyone's way, erratic traffic, dried fish, durian, no parking, loud noises, uneven pavement, strong flavours, and... and... and...
I must say, I really enjoy places where that man and his wheelchair will not go. Those are still my places.
Good luck taking that away.


On weekends I force myself to eat. It probably wouldn't be healthy to subsist entirely on tea, tobacco, and whiskey.
Awfully tempting, though.
Fortunately I still enjoy bathing. Being clean is a nice feeling.
Despite the positive social impact.


It's a slow process, but I'm learning stay out of conversations where my input would disturb other people.
There is no need for me to contribute, and not doing so keeps me from feeling burned.
It's far better to listen; it doesn't chase the shy creatures away.
Sometimes language is the only thing we have in common.
Seldom content.



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PONCING, PORCELAIN, AND PASTES - CULTIVATING SELF-RESTRAINT, ALBEIT UNWILLINGLY

Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s immensely frustrating living with a lovely woman who is not sharing my bed. Fortunately, despite all my worst instincts, I am capable of remaining a complete gentleman. And her Aspergers is too great to notice any appreciative glances, unless I were to actually say something along the lines of “miss, you look good enough to eat”.
Which I’m not going to do. It's not my place to do so.
Not anymore.

That’s one of the reasons I flee to the office on weekends.
The other one is that I need to be alone, now more so than before.
Without companionship and affection, I require more time to myself.
Yeah, Savage Kitten and I still get along fine. Much better now than a few months ago. And definitely better than just after we broke up.
But given that I cannot look at her with the spark that used to be in my eyes.........


I like having her as a roommate, though. She’s a predictable and reliable quantity.
And after two decades, we’re used to each other’s weird habits (I don’t have any weird habits, but for the sake of balance and fairness, let us rhetorically pretend that I do).

In the past, I would happily ponce around the apartment in my birthday suit in the time between first cup of coffee and going out.
Especially after a bath. Gotta let the skin air a bit, don’t you know.
Without someone glancing appreciatively at my fine manly figure, however, it’s not nearly so much fun.
Now the only time I ponce is when she’s not around.
And no one glances at all.


I ponce really well! Did you know that?


In the year since the break-up, my bed has gotten a bit cluttered.
I no longer need to make room for another person, so in consequence I’ve kind of let it slide.
Besides the various stuffed animals (“roomies”), there are also various cookbooks, a couple of reference books, a world map, and a few binders with internet research printouts (ethnology, foreign politics, porcelain glazes, etc.).
When you sleep alone, you tend to wake up in the middle of the night. Which is as good a time to read about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai as any.

Those rare times when I woke up in the middle of the night while still in a loving relationship, I would also ponce.
Sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. Not ALL poncing requires nudity!
But like with interpretive dance, it helps.
Look, a naked mime!


PONCE! PONCE! PONCE!


At some point, I may lose it entirely. I’ll walk up to a complete stranger and proposition her: “miss, can I tell you about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai?”
If she expresses an interest in ANY of those subjects – especially chocolate ganache, or other fine confectionary subjects – she’s hooked.
More than likely, however, she’ll promptly call the cops on her cell-phone.


“Hello? I wish to report a pervert. He’s at the corner of Stockton and Clay Streets. He’s there RIGHT NOW!
He propositioned me with mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, and pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai! Yes, TWO glazes, a dubious pork product, and GANACHE!
He even threatened to feed me Linzer Torte! Waaaah!”


No one wants to see a sweet young girl crying in terror.
The humanity! The trauma! The multi-syllabic vocabulary!

Fortunately, despite all my worst instincts, I am still capable of remaining a complete gentleman.
Never mind their tempting innocence, most little ladies I am likely to fall for are incapable of feeling attracted to a scholarly-looking middle-aged studmuffin with an intense affection for comestibles and vitrified products.
No matter how trim and gleamy-eyed.
I know that.

That’s another reason I flee to the office on weekends.
I can read all I want about celadons, curry paste, jade discs, country pâtés, brushwashers, lekvar, sancai overglaze techniques, nước mắm, underglaze blue, Chicken Kiev, Kangxi and Qianlong periods, millefeuille, millefiori, ragoût, and Yixing teapots.
Without interruption, frustration, or disquiet of any kind.
That's what I'm doing right now!
If I were a pervert, my hands would shake and sweat would pour out.

But I am a gentleman.
And rather lonely.


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BIG BUCKET OF SPRAY

My ex-girlfriend (Savage Kitten) has been telling me appreciatively that I am a chick magnet.
And apparently her current boyfriend ('Wheelie Boy') is incredibly jealous of the fact that I have great legs.

Astounding gams.
I have it on good authority.
Savage Kitten said so.

Wheelie Boy (which is what I call him, because he rolls around in a wheel chair) almost certainly does not have legs nearly as good as mine.
I wouldn't actually know. I'm not into male gams.
Even if I end up pushing him off the end of a pier (which would be an accident), I shall not particularly scope out his podialities at that time.

I hope he has burning acid reflux from his jealousy.
Suffering is good for him. It builds character.

Perhaps if I twiddle my gams at him he'll plotz from resentment.

I'm still shocked off at how fast she hooked up with him after breaking off with me.
After twenty years! Godverdomme! His jealousy should bite!



And as far as calling me a chick magnet, HELLOOOOO!!!!

I don't see any 'chicks'. Where are they?

I wouldn't mind some sincerely randy admiration right now!

Girls, I'm fully magnetized!

Shaking an attractive gam here, your appreciation please!

Hello?


Nope, not working. Some magnets are negatively charged, that's all there is to it.
They reject instead of attract. Defective.

The ever-optimistic sour grape within avers that of course this also works to my advantage. It has just got to.
And I'm fairly certain that some other "chick magnets" I have seen in action are either on the receiving end of penicilin, or the dispensing end of alimony right now. They just attracted too many random screws.
Either that or they're drained old farts like Hugh Heffner.
Chick magnetism may shrivel you up.

Whereas I and my fine gams are just happily wandering around Nob Hill, la la la la la, not a care in the world, wondering where the wimmins at.

The sour grape within has a remarkably positive attitude. Silly raisin.


I'm all fresh and born-again virginal. Well, something.

Quite the foxy profile, too. A good straight nose.

Character references available upon request.

Bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

Again, stressing the gams.

They're juicy!

Hello?


Unattached, available, reasonably intelligent, and nicely clean.
And actually quite a nice chap. Fairly considerate, too. Keen insight and a sharpish wit, when caffeinated.
Interesting personal style, reasonably good taste, not too eccentric.
Decent in many if not all aspects (lets ignore the perverse streak, it isn't really an issue - at least, it shouldn't be, unless you share everything with your parents OR your easily titillated thirteen year old cousin).

Just negatively charged.

It's probably the large karmic sign over my head that seems to be saying "chick repellant" in big bold sparkly neon letters. That may be sabotaging my progress.
Either that or the imaginary "no parking here" notice that accompanies me at all times.
The kind of 'chicks' I like would probably notice these things.
After all, they read.

Sad, really.
All these bright LITERATE young ladies, with their keen minds and lively interests!
Sparkly eyes and zesty temperaments.
And they are TOTALLY unaware of my fine masculine extremities!
Missing out, is what they are.


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CHINESE RELATIONS

When you didn’t want your family to know about us, I abided by your decision.
I recognized that it would’ve created problems – your mother would’ve made everyone’s lives miserable, both yours and your siblings, until you were out of the family and they had been forced to stop associating with you.
Your messed up Chinese family dynamics precluded any introduction going well.

Later you said that you were embarrassed by them, that you did not want to expose me to that environment. Above all you wanted to protect me from your harridan bitch mom, and didn’t want me to think any less of you by seeing what you came from, what you might turn into.
I know your mom’s type, so I can understand wanting to hide from her, and avoid the confrontation.

Because it would indeed have been a confrontation.
It would’ve been a declaration of all-out war, with all the worst emotions let loose, and every poisonous rhetorical weapon in the old lady’s arsenal fired off, burning everyone and everything in her path. From the very moment of first meeting she would’ve hatefully conspired, vociferated against you, denied that you were her child, rigidly enforced a complete cut-off from your siblings and their families, made sure that you and anyone associated with you would’ve been outcastes. She would’ve ripped up everything that you had left behind, burned all things that showed you had ever existed, cut you out of photos, and cut you off from all relatives.
You would’ve become a non-person.
The barrage would’ve been constant, continuous, and unpredictably vicious.
You also feared what she might try to do to me, or try to do to both of us. Or where her venom would surface, given that some of her ambit and her social circle included our neighborhood.
We’ve both seen old Chinese biddies blessing-out their children or their menfolk in Chinatown – it’s valid street-theatre and absolutely fascinating, but quite excruciating for the poor victims.

The likelihood of everything I have just described happening made you cringe, even thinking about it was deeply shaming.


But you love your siblings, and they also have successfully kept much of their lives secret from mom.
And since your mom had her several strokes, she has been out of the picture entirely.

Now you are going to introduce your new boyfriend to your kin.


So tell me, who were you really embarrassed about?


When, over fifteen years ago, you dragged me along to the year-end get-togethers of your martial arts gang, I knew it was because you needed the reassurance of a comforting and supportive presence. Required squiring. Smile and shake hands. No problem.
We did that for several years – each year, I would go with you to meet people who were nice, but whom I did not know, given that I only saw them once a year (even though you attended many social events with that crowd).

You changed martial arts styles over a decade ago.
I have not met any of your friends since then.
You have met all of my friends.

You’ve even met most of my relatives, although you didn’t feel comfortable with such a high level of whitey-whiteness – too many university degrees, too many waspy cultural elements, too much possible correctness about knives, forks, serviettes.
When they visited the Bay Area, you said ‘hi’. Then fiercely resisted spending more time than was absolutely necessary with them.

They’ve inquired about you, and I’ve told them that you are well.
I haven’t told them about what happened, because I don’t want to hear what they have to say about this situation.

I have never been part of your family or your social circle – in the case of one or two people, you even indicated that I was frightening, or not good enough, or too much and too weird for them to deal with……...
I know that you barely ever admitted that you were in a relationship.
All part of keeping the private life truly private, right?

Yeah, I know. Good Chinatown girls 'don’t do such things', nice Cantonese girls shouldn’t hang around with “eccentric” white men.
The you know what will hit the you know what if your mom ever finds out.

She’s been non compos mentis for TWO YEARS now.

For the several years before her strokes, she wasn’t exactly the model of agility or attention either.


SHIFTING PERSPECTIVE

Her final collapse into vegetativeness liberated you. It gave you a feeling of the world finally opening up.
And at that point, I probably also started to become a part of your past, the background that seemed to hem you in.
Her decomposition allowed you to grow.
I was no longer the asylum to which you could flee, and I no longer represented the rock of safety and sanity, once the tempest abated.
Instead, you started perceiving me as someone with an accretion of too many bumps.

You changed.

You like your friends. You love and respect your siblings.


I have never met them.



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LIGHT AND DARK

The house is unbearable empty every time she goes to be with him. When she rushes out the door, she is vibrantly alive, glowing, radiant.
This is not, you will understand, conducive to a good mood for the man she dumped.
It reminds me of how painful our last weeks as lovers were.
When she has gone, the sunlight fades and a cold darkness fills our space.

This is an indication of the insanity of our still living together after the breakup.
I will continue to live with her - this is our apartment, home and refuge for both of us, her and me - and I still enjoy her presence (see suggestions of light and warmth above), but her absence is a howling void.

In the past, when she came home, it was to us. To me.
Since she found him, when she returns it is from somewhere else.

It has been a very long time since we ate together, and it has been far too long since I ate with someone whose eyes sparkled at me.
Now when I eat, the emptiness across the table diminishes the taste of every bite.

Food is black alone, it brings no joy.

The company of a loveable woman is like a drug.

Withdrawal is not easy.



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MAYBE IT WAS NOT THE RIGHT TIME

It is fortunate that I am not normal. A normal person would probably think about killing himself right about now. I am not that weak.
Far too stubborn and ornery, in fact.

I've always thought of self-murder as being, besides being impossibly comedic, a fierce statement against an un-understanding world, a final act of resistance, a defiant and definite rude gesture to everyone and everything.
Except, what would I be rebelling against?
Her having dumped me?
Screw that, I am more resilient than that.
Her having, for some strange and twisted Asperger-meets-terminally-shy neurotic reason have fixated on my imagined failings?
I've been gallant and gentlemanly for nearly 22 years, if she cannot appreciate that, someone else will.

Perhaps her having concluded, after months of obsessive Asperger-type misinterpretation that our relationship was an old rag that should be dumped rather than kept?

An old rag?!?

IF ALL YOU WERE WILLING TO TALK ABOUT IS HOW YOU DISLIKED YOUR JOB, FOR SEVERAL MONTHS, HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO REACT? YOUR FRUSTRATIONS AT WORK WERE ALWAYS MORE THAN ENOUGH REASON FOR ME TO LOOSE INTEREST IN SNUGGLE-BUNNIES.
SWEETHEART, BRINGING THAT TO BED WAS RAIN ON THE PARADE.

Do you tell Wheelchair guy about those things? Have you started sharing that with him yet?
Yes, I know he's totally insensitive - his Aspergers is worse than yours, far worse than mine. But even thingboy may eventually find it somewhat less than stimulating. Dis-inspiring even.

Perhaps, just maybe, certain conversational gambits are NOT bedroom appropriate.

And yet, you blamed me.

Thank you.

I feel so important.


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STIFF UPPER LIP

Savage Kitten worries about me. She wonders if I'm ever going to be okay with this situation, whether I'm developing a drinking problem, and if my mental state is interfering with my meeting someone new.

No, no, and that third one is entirely a moot point at present.

Obviously, I'm going to have to time my crying jags and fits of emotional disturbance better. Can't have the girl finding me screeching on the kitchen floor next to a bottle of whiskey too often.

She worries about me, about her siblings, and about that man.

[That man: Him, wheelie boy, the thing in her life, it. Whatever we choose to call her current flame. The man she discovered after she dumped me. The masculine entity who will NEVER come up to the apartment she and I still share because his wheelchair doesn't do hills. Hah!]


She always worries about other people. And I wish she would do so less. Some of us can actually function. And, with effort, overcome our little problems.
It's just that there are times when we have to recline gracefully on the kitchen floor in a fetal position wailing our hearts out and warding-off bats.
Think of it as poetry. Or performance art.

I really wish she hadn't seen that. I wasn't expecting her home so early.

And really, I'm fine. Totally. Just still digesting the collapse of my emotional foundations. It takes time. Trust me. You did it for several months BEFORE you broke up with me, and you hid it very well.
I'm doing the same thing, but in reverse.

There are times when certain things hit me. There is nothing you can do about that.
Nor would I want you to. Emmes & echt.
I want you to be a happy person.
Which is also one of the reasons I would have preferred that you hadn't found me on the kitchen floor.
And that doesn't represent the kind of person I am.
I'm normally such a happy guy. La la la la la!

[[Please imagine joyous baritone singing at this point. Something in mediaeval Latin.]


There are just certain times when I have to indulge the gloomy depressive Northern European inside. He's such a pain.
I'm sure you must have had that too.
Doesn't everyone?


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BRITTLE DISCOMFORT

There is a narrowness about life now. It seems that my ability to communicate is no longer what it was.
Or maybe it is that I am now much more aware that I cannot correctly convey what I mean, or convince others when I speak.

Savage Kitten listens, but I do not think she hears. It will probably take a long time before she understands what I have, in these past few months, tried to say. She is not prepared to grasp my points, nor realize that what she said when she broke off our relationship, and how she said it, were in effect if not intent almost impossibly wounding.
I admire her resilience.

Unfortunately, I cannot speak to anyone else either. Some things just cannot and should not be said, and I myself find it hard to speak of other matters.
What I do not clearly say requires more intensive listening than most people are capable of, and more attention than I can demand of my friends.
Really, who is avid for subjects not bright and easy?
And why should anyone even expect that of their friends?

I do not speak, I have no voice.
And I resent my own muteness.



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