a monday kind of love.

Maybe it's like George Sand & Chopin, or Henry Miller & Anais Nin. There's these bright shining passages of transcendent passion, but even if things don't work out, it's the achieving of those highs for a time if you're lucky enough to receive them that will live on in glory in your heart and within the hearts of others, in the story that hopefully gets told of your life.

In my desire for peak experiences maybe that's what I manifest for myself, instead of a long-lasting mediocrity, or hanging onto a faded shadow of what was once a past joy, but unsustainable, as most do.

Still, I miss my marriage, or I miss the ideal of marriage, the construct of permanence, an inviolate safety & sanctuary I'd thought I'd had and have lost through no fault of my own. I bet my emotional bank on my wife, a person who'd oathed by the Gods to keep troth with me, and it didn't work out. It was fucking crushing at a level I'd never experienced before. If after that a divorcé never lost hesitancy, or remained boundaried, or stayed emotionally guarded for the rest of their life, no one could blame them from learning those safeties from their deeply hurtful experience.

What is enough? What is needed? Are those wants just larger fears and shortcomings of self that actually have nothing to do with the other person, or are those needs real? And is my happiness with who I am a strength, or does my self-satisfaction rob me of the ability to change? It's not that I don't change, but my whole life I've changed so glacially, with consideration & care at such a slowly studied degree that my self-love will allow. If that change doesn't come at a rate or time that another person wants me to change, then what does that cost me or protect me from? But if I change for someone else, do I then become someone better or worse, or just someone different, someone less recognizable, a face in the mirror that has kept another's love but in a sacrificial ratio lost self-love, and possibly one's own center?

My writer's logic allows me to understand, to frame it in a way that gives it context, but my unquenchable romanticism, the feelings themselves, break my heart.

Again.

And again.

And I write about it, again, like an eternal return, a fire that never dies, a burning ship, a battle that is instead a brutally wanted kiss.

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[for K and the 68 Mondays.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.

a life cast in John Hughes.

There's that montage in Pretty in Pink where Andie/Duckie/Blaine are sitting by the phone soon after the physically decisive hay-rolling horse stable date, it's raining outside like the world's trying to drown itself, and New Order's Elegia creeps its way in & builds into an inexorable throb as the next day at school comes to cast its harsh light on the emotional shortfall.

That's exactly where I'm at right now.

Surprise. Joy. Frustration. Disappointment.
I can hear myself counseling a friend not so long ago that we were better men for holding onto our romantic ideals, that they imbue our souls with worth & value, that they represent an undefeatable hope that we will one fine day find that girl, that our desires will be met & exceeded with passion & comfort, and it will all be achingly transcendent.

"What about prom?"

All I want to do right now is listen to The Smiths, nurse a three finger tumbler of scotch while hucking cards into a bin, ride my BMX until I collapse in unthinking fugue, or go beat the crap out of something. And to seriously back whatever kickstarter or tech stock that's working on gynobots.

Yet I also want to believe I'm still right, to hang onto my 1980s optimism and teen drama motion picture ending.

I watched two friends of mine at work not look at each other today. They'd talked about moving away together, about taking trips to far cities & deep wildernesses, worked on merging dreams, and helped each other through some of their past damages. But they broke up last night, showing up so bitter and unhappy, just standing there 20 feet from each other, unable to escape, unable to look. It killed me to watch it, though it might've been for the best and beyond repair, the selfishness outweighing their willingness to understand & accept the other. It was so uncomfortable & ugly. But they aren't me, nor are they she.

"No! What about prom?"

A girl I'd had a crush on since my freshman year asked me to senior prom. She asked me. Because it happened once, I have to believe it could happen again.

It just feels so, so, so, very, very, very, hard right now.

Fuck.

Fucking happen already.

[Andie, I feel you. I would've called because I still believe in you. I wish upon your star.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.