We all may be prisoners of our own reality, hence on so many occasions, boredom. I for myself now so many years later past a more active life of the comings and goings of others. The fringes of society more often my stamping grounds as it has been for he introductory decade to that indecisive period known as ‘middle age’. These circumstances do not come about simply as a matter of an accident occurred in the moment but as part of a gradual wearing down process based upon events that in hindsight seem to stack up like a row of dominoes. A child’s game that seems in the mirror of that thing called habit to line up into a continuity of encounters that one’s own personality controls almost unconsciously, but not quite. The memory of the open burner of the stove or the paperclip near grooves of the electrical socket are never to far from conscious thought.
Long tedious days fraught with monumental aggravations tends to make one take the course of a quiet evening before the television hopefully before an old movie whose scenario is far removed from your own. Take the fantastic nature of the plot of Hitchcock’s, “Rebecca” with its intervening layers of different genres of gothic romance, psychological drama and offbeat romance. A vehicle that in my own case brings sleep to the eyes somewhat rapidly yet continuously engages the mind in cotton like drifting borders of somewhat awake to partially asleep. It is somewhere within, that one experiences both present and past in a concoction that is oft reshuffled. Transported to like same situations where characters from the past long gone still linger as vital and real as if they still existed on a daily basis in waking reality. The movie droning on in my ears as the location of my bedstead changed to the possibility of three separate locations from the dusty kingsized legacy of dead parents to an air mattress on the living room floor of the parents of an early childhood friend overlapping the decor of the couch in an old tired ranch house family addition from a now estranged girlfriend. The narrator’s voice droning on throughout. My laggardly thought process in parallel to it as one would expect in a movies auditorium exercised in whispers between crunch of popcorn kernels. This lace tying together the various eyelet holes so that conversation of both movie and inner dialogue become simpatico and part of other odd dramas cooked up by the id using all these stated puzzle pieces.
The blue glow of the television flickering in the barely lit living room of someone else’s house providing hospitality on the knife’s edge of acceptance. A husband coming home decades later to find the grown up version of their son’s childhood friend sleeping in their house with the wife in the kitchen being a nervous proposition for all. The corollary reminding one of their own past foolishness in dating a Persian girl who in the light of recall had some perverse fetishes that required the peril of discovery. Something that for her in the new land of the USA unlike back home in her religiously intolerant land shinning female desire required such things. The taste of the lash upon ones unprotected skin during intimacy from that point forward becoming a necessary ingredient in their sensuality. Discovery by family members of her engaged naked in coitus mere inches within the shadows from an open door of her bedroom being her kick. For those as aged as myself the alternate being equally problematic as doing the nasty in the front seat of a parking lot late at night physically too challenging to inspire much ardor. I have to suppose that the sex lives of the male preying mantis or their fellow male black widow spiders are charged with an exceptional degree of orgasmic enthusiasm followed by the inevitable fatal cynicism? The dimly illuminated vision resident in the hollow less occasioned spaces of my mind of my partner’s less charming orifices demanding service still lurking like the mandibles of a much larger and voracious carnivorous insect lover.
There is no rest it seems in a life fueled by such visions of the past now matter how nervously reawakened the loins may be charged with by this sort of experience. The mismatch of what one expects from either side of what the consider conventional determining the viability of the relationship. In my own case, those kinks of being interrupted by old jilted spouses or irate Muslim family members brandishing sharpened kitchen cutlery just not my thing. My own sort of excitement in the bedroom disappointedly being too Episcopalian or Methodist these days. Yet as mentioned the mind can wander. We are all animals after all. Long after the possibility of the fit excuse of further procreation we are driven on to consider the repetition of the ritual without any realistic hope of biological success. Another form of mental construct of ongoing recreational fantasy that all hold so dear of that bygone yesteryear, I suppose?