Inherent Doubt

My mind is a jumble of ideas that I can't write.  They are like the shadows in this picture.  We know what is there but we just can't see it.  An open invitation or a threat?  Oh. . . I have some ideas on that in the jumbled up place.  Old Eve remembering her youth.  What?!? 

The new ISIS manifest on slave girls is all the rage.  Outrage, I mean.  One critic in the New York Times called it a "male fantasy."  He's a sick fuck, I think, a totalizer, a hater.  How does one get to say something like that publicly and famously these days?  I know women who might fantasize about such things and men who wouldn't.  His assumptions sicken me. 

I'm feeling totally unhip and under-attractive.  It shouldn't bother me, but it does.  I had a breakdown last night looking in the mirror. I heard myself scream, "How in the hell do I fix this?!"  The bush didn't burst into flame and tell me the answer, however.  All that came my way was the old, eternal silence.  No guidebook, no judge, no appeal.  All around me was the boundless void, perpetual, ceaseless.

You know what I mean. 

The worst part is when you begin to blame yourself.  Shoulda, coulda, woulda. . . .  It doesn't matter, though.  It really doesn't.  It is a problem of living, of having a personal history.  You begin to see patterns where perhaps there aren't any.  Or maybe you are not looking deep enough to see the more complex ones. 

"Calling Dr. Freud.  Calling Dr. Freud." 

While I am gazing into the cosmic navel, the Pope who won't meet with the Dali Lama is wondering about the souls of dogs. He, of course, has a much better life than I.  Everywhere there are people to defend him.  According to the New York Times:

 "Charles Camosy, an author and professor of Christian ethics at Fordham University, said it was difficult to know precisely what Francis meant, since he spoke 'in pastoral language that is not really meant to be dissected by academics.'”

I want some of that.  Note: I, too. . . .

Quality of life--it is such a weird thing.  Mine is pretty good, and I appreciate it much.  I won't trade with many of the world's population.  But then something happens, and I think, "I am not living as I should.  I'm not this enough or that enough.  There are things I will certainly never have." 

I should just be happy that I've never gone to prison, but I am greedy and want a bit more.  It is the getting more than I deserve that makes it difficult.  But the philosopher Ralph Lauren is soon to be my guiding light.  He will soon open a new restaurant and bar in Upper Manhattan.  It is going to be old school upscale, of course, and will have a fairly strict dress code.  Now I am not saying that this parallels my love life, but I found his words to be inspirational.  From the article, once again in the Times:

"'As for the Polo Bar, sartorial regulations could wind up being flexible. Mr. Lauren broke into a subtle grin and said, “I guess if I don’t do any business, I’ll take anyone.'”

He is a practical romantic.  There seems some wisdom there. 

I'll try to forget myself for a while by going to see "Inherent Vice" if it is playing here this weekend.  It seems like something I should see.  At least the trailer looks good.