Friendship Lament (Rant)

I need someone to talk to.
I need someone to listen.
I need someone who wants to speak.
I need a friend.

A real honest to goodness, balls to the wall, now and forever, “I understand you” and “This is what I think” . . . friend. And I'm not talking about the kind of people that you can count on, the kind that you can laugh with, the kind that will be with you when you are alone. I have plenty of those. I have many beautiful people who fill the spaces of my life, but I have no one that talks to me.

Really talks to me.

No one listens to the concerns of my soul, they don’t communicate to the higher functions of my cerebral cortex, and they don’t giggle at the absurdities of considering the spiritual components of my physical heart.

“I am Corey’s medulla oblongata and I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

I want to translate binary code into its original Greek and transcribe the subtext into basic HTML but the mere proposals of those kinds of conversations are quickly shut down. And I allow it. I go without. I argue on their behalf that perhaps they are topics that have no interest for them; that perhaps their world is designed to not need to know such things; that perhaps they are fundamentally incapable of comprehending certain ideas; or perhaps that I'm just all-and-out wrong, and have an unhealthy preoccupation with overly complicated concepts (Now THAT I don’t believe for a second . . . but it’s possible). So to keep the peace, and appease the masses, and reduce the awkward silences; mostly I swallow my need and continue to talk about the mundanity of our lives; about Television and Celebrities, and Clothing and Food, and how much we love each other (or other overly emotional interpersonal clichés) . . . while the things that are (most) important to me go ignored.

I feel shunned . . . abjured . . . lobotomized . . . and locked away.

I'm standing in a crowded room full of color and life, with loved ones and strangers moving about me as I bleed. . . they know I'm starving, they know I need, they hear how loudly I scream, they see the flesh pulling from my skin . . . but they will not look at me. They will not engage; because no one wants to get involved. . . (Okay so maybe that’s a little dramatic but it’s the first image that came to mind.) Basically my needs are not being met.

Our relationships are so one sided that I do not miss them when they are gone.

I saw Vashon’s mom the other day and my heart hurt at his absence. I remembered the conversations into the early morning about God (or the Theory of God) and Einstein’s perspective on the matter; about the legalities of a fundamental right, and the miscommunication of truth; about sexuality and identity, and the malleability of the two (And how we would laugh together through the most intense oppositions.). . . And I yearned for that again. And then I thought of her. . . The one who made me understand the complex dichotomy of beauty and social perspective, and how grace and introspection where intertwined; the one who could dance like tribal drums, cast spells in Cuban tongues, and softly whisper universal edicts while tears streamed down her face showing the authentic fragility of power.

I miss her.
I miss him.
I miss that.

I don’t have that anymore. No one holds my hand as I try to find order in the oblivion of chaos . . . no one collaborates with me, no one plays with me, no one deciphers with me the pattern of the anti-matter to matter ration equation while balancing the unknown factors of the Jesus Predicament when compared to the Old Testament’s Job Scenario (Over French fries and a milkshake). I have no friend. I have no equal. I have no balance. I have no person to run to when I come across a frayed edge of existentialism that I can’t quite wrap my brain around. Those that I would call they shut down; they get bored; or they look at me like “Please not again!” So I shut up. I turn it off, and I wait until I'm alone.

“I love no more. (end of line)”

I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of it being me against the world. I'm tired of using kiddies’ gloves. I'm tired of making excuses for them; of offering altruism to a situation that feeds no selfish need. Why do I have to be your friend if you are unwilling to be mine?

Oh wait! Is that a question too complicated? Is the premise too personal to touch? Am I pushing the boundary of our relationship? Do you still have nothing to say?

Well Fuck You! I'm tired of going without!!

I need a friend who will listen to me when things bother me, who will talk to me when things go wrong, who will follow me on my obtuse thought tangents and help me align the foci without batting an eye.

Because that’s what friends do:
They listen to each other.
They talk to each other.
And they understand what the other has to say.

BLINDSIDED

I cried about it today. Not about him, but about it: The situation. About how hard I tried, how easy I thought it would be, and how just when everything seemed to be going so well, the Universe conspired against me. I never have those kinds of conversations (at least never from my end); you know the ones, the kind that are choking and unsure; filled with unsaid emotion; and dirty with delayed introspection. And yet here I was sharing water, fresh baked bread, and Insalata Caprese, on the patio of an Italian restaurant in ..West Hollywood.. in broad day light fighting to breath between the breaths; and drowning from the bubbling forth of lingering liquid hurts I did not know were flowing below the surface. Me!!! Mr. Corey Consciousness!!! The guy who knows every emotion he feels at every given moment; why he is feeling it; and what the fruition of that emotion will eventually bring, while simultaneously processing the validity of continuing to feel that particular pathos, was BLINDSIDED; overwhelmed by the utterance of a simple compound-complex sentence: “I tried my best, but my best wasn’t good enough.”

It didn’t work. And it wasn’t my fault (which by no means means it was his). It’s always my fault . . Or at least I'm often partially to blame. But in this I am completely absolved. My hands are clean. I'm not talking about responsibility; that’s a burden that is never lifted. Both people always contribute to the trajectory of the relationship regardless of who did what to whom and why. It is the simple mathematic equation found in the ripple effect. Chaos and Order intertwined. I no longer use the word blame. I no longer judge the situation. And I no longer wonder what’s wrong with the other person. Because they like me, are perfect.

This is about me and God. This is about God and I. This is about us. About the Promises I made, about the bargains we negotiated, and the unspoken vows that bend my pocket of reality into something that I can comprehend long enough to purposefully and knowingly offer my portion to the trade. And I was Abel. I gave my best fruits; I gave my firstlings; my purest milk, and my most gilded piece of mettle. I gave the best of my best’s best! And still my body lay broken and bleeding in the forgotten fields.

“Where is Abel?”
“I do not know.”
“What have you done?”
What do you do when your best is not enough?
I guess that is when the tears come.
That is when you release the reigns and let go.
And I do.
I have.
I will.

It is a familiar lesson of which I recollect the process. But I did not know how much it would hurt this time; how profoundly it would affect me, and how humbling it would be. With all my skills; all my “feminine” whiles, all my rules; all my ability to affect, manipulate, and fascinate the male species I cannot make them do that thing.

Not Love.
Love is easy.

That I mastered in my Twenties. My mother taught me when I was twelve. That I can do with my eyes closed. I can make a man adore me, buy me jewelry, move me in, purpose marriage, change his religion, and alter the way he sees the future. Love I can do. But there is something else: some illusive magic that I just can’t seem to weave; some lesson of legerdemain so ancient that my tongue can’t touch the dialect. It is lost to me. It is not mine. And perhaps it never will be.

Today I cried about it.
And it felt wonderful.