Mount St. Christian

I blue myself last night: first the explosion of anger, then the collapse into not caring anymore, at least about attracting other people. It is not often I let myself get pissed, because the lava of my wrath tends to flow wherever it can and envelope both guilty and innocent. Last night, however, I had privacy, and I furthermore banned myself from making related statuses on Facebook; so I rampaged. My rampages can seem tame, for at least two reasons: I don't get much practice, and I don't like to yell or scream (my vocal cords just don't seem to be made to do those with any ease). I tend to be like Austria here:

That'll show Germany. 

Likewise, I have a project I'm working on, John in Hell, a musicalization of Don Giovanni, into which I throw my bitterness and cynicism about people, relationships, sex and sexuality, and the like; the subject is fit for such topics, so I can at least put my feelings to good use. 

So what started me fuming? Men.

It's one thing to receive flat-out rejection, but another to be led along and then dropped and ignored. And I should have known better. I had my doubts about him from the start. Yet sense and better judgment, after a long period of denial and loneliness, is no match to a pretty face and honeyed talk. Foolishness is all the more painful when you allow yourself to fall into the eventual outcome.

Of course, I am a man myself, and I do aim at myself. A victim of the male romantic imagination, I am, whatever that is in contrast to the female one, and worse still, of the gay/bisexual male romantic imagination, particularly one which usually misses the mark because of shoddy gaydar. Ugh...kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. 

One of my constant sources of anguish is the gulf that lies between what people say about me and results: that is, I usually hear that I am "good guy," with smarts and enough looks to boot, yet...the pudding of proof is missing. "Confidence," they tell me, and I suppose that would bridge the gulf, but (knowing) persistence (hmm, is there much of a difference between persistence and confidence?) has never been a strong trait of mine, and the already flickering flame is hungry for oxygen.

While I lick those wounds, I'll feed other desires. Therefore, I give up for awhile on the romantic front. I may have repressed myself for 20 years, hiding my sexuality and not caring about (romantic) love, but at least I was productive and could focus. 

I'm done erupting. My anger never lasts for long, a good and bad thing. As a mea culpa for my bitching, a song that came to mind out of the blue.