Can’t sleep

My girl is away. Can’t sleep. I can drink though. Don’t do me any good of course, still can’t sleep. Smoke, drink… kill time, days at a time, days in a second, each second a day, until she is back. Let the damned day break. I look in her eyes, but they ain’t there; even so I drown in them. How can one become so attached to another human being? It seems perfectly right and insane all at once. It’s like lying down and asking to be killed and expecting it to happen and it doesn’t… and that meets my foolish hopes. I only went down to be pulled up. I can’t help being surprised that it actually worked, which makes me love her all the more, of course. Christ, what a woman, I think . . . if only she was here, I’d show her how very much I fancy her . . . but she ain’t. I want to seize her in my arms, crush her to me, kiss her savagely and feel how she bends back to receive it. I want her to seize me and push me on to the bed with that demanding look in her eyes, that look that says show me what you have, buck, show me how you love me. A little push that makes me surrender, fall for the moment, but . . . a little push that also shows she wants me to, well . . . to take her.

It’s not like it sounds. It sounds like conquest, but it ain’t like that. Men have a tendency to speak of love in terms of war, but that is just a mask. I am convinced that it’s the men who surrender and give women what they want. Behavioral science actually confirms this, but what the fuck do I know. I can’t sleep, I’m drunk, so you can’t believe a word I say anyway. I’m just waiting until she comes back, until I can become sane again.
Listening to In Your Garden Twenty Fecund Fruit Trees from Frank Londons Klezmer Brass Allstars,

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Inner Calm

The girlfriends always say: you’re so calm, you’re my rock in the swirling stormy water.
Christ almighty . . . if only I could sleep. Where’s the inner calm when I need it, when I’m alone? Sometimes I wonder if that calm they speak of is only a façade, but the fact is, it isn’t. I’ve wondered about it often enough to know. I do feel calm when I am with a woman I love. They make me calm, like balsam on a wound.
What wound is that, that needs staunching so bad? Why is it so raw when I am alone? So raw, it makes me want to rip it open, get at the inner pain, rip it out, dammit! Where in hell’d it come from?
But when I am with a woman I love, I am at peace. I feel no need, no need for anything except her presence. That’s enough, I am satisfied. It doesn’t matter if I am lying half asleep with my head on her lap, or massaging her back – doing my best to make her feel good –, or discussing a piece of art we saw that day . . . I am at peace with the world. That is all I need.
I love art, but I almost never go to galleries or expositions without a girlfriend. I love nature, fresh air, but I hardly go out without a girlfriend. I love good food, but I never go to a restaurant without a girlfriend. I love life, but without a woman who I love and who loves me, it seems worthless. All that love inside me . . . worthless. No amount of inner calm can help me over that hump.
If only I could sleep.
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