Tagged: saline laxative
REFLECTIONS ON THE COMING CURMUDGEON
I seem to know many wonderful women who are not “relationship material”, either by their own admission, or by my own “filter” process. This does not, in any way, disqualify them as profoundly beloved friends. I love their company, and their otherness. They exude a sensibility (and sensitivity) that I can only fleetingly understand. I am charmed by their small gestures, by the toss of hair, or the putting on of lipstick, or the odd fact that dressing, which for me is a matter of 10 minutes, can be an hour-long ultimately unsatisfactory exercise for them.
I am sometimes overwhelmed by their unconditional affection, by their caring deeply if some contretemps builds a speed bump across my personal highway. I love their laughter, and their intellect, and their calling me on my bullshit when it is bullshit – which, of course, is not often!
I love spending time with them, but can no more envision taking the friendship over the “intimacy” threshold than I can imagine myself growing antlers and becoming a moose.
This leads to an inevitable result: I live alone. I live a solitary, introspective life – not an unpleasant one, mind, but definitely solitary and even, at times, reclusive.
It is a rich life, full of beauty, books, music and art, and words. I live in a breathtakingly beautiful place from which I can watch seabirds and harbor seals, and the endless play of light on the water. I see mountains, and fog. I have a Siamese cat. I meditate. I sing in the shower. My politics lean the right way, which is left. I think about things like semiotics and Shakespeare and the “observing ego”. I read poetry in French. All would seem well.
And there’s the rub. There are times when this resplendent solitude and its attendant silence is overwhelming; times when I feel a palpable yearning for a gentle touch on the cheek, or a kiss that speaks something more than “goodnight, I had a wonderful time. Let’s do this again soon”.
This is when I realize the intellectual distractions are just that: distractions. They keep my mind occupied, and my eyes averted from the fact that what I do, I do alone. I wonder if I’m lonely.
Not long ago, I was watching a movie on TV in my living room with friends. One woman was sitting beside me. She was tired, and the film wasn’t engrossing. She fell asleep, due to the peculiar geometry of the sofa, with her head on my chest. It seemed that time stopped. That simple gesture, full of trust and vulnerability spoke volumes to me about what is not in my world. After a few minutes, she awoke, and pulled away, embarrassed. I wanted to reach out to say, “no, no, it’s OK. Lay your head back down and let me hear you breathe”. Naturally, I did not.
I wonder if, before too many more years have passed, I’ll become bitter and disappointed. Will that bitterness turn inward? Will a preference for solitude become a fixation on keeping my space inviolate, and will my inner old-guy-turned-curmudgeon finally take his place?
Another woman who happens to be the wife of another friend, and therefore not “relationship material” is very kind to me, and is affectionate toward me strictly within the boundaries allowed. She shocked me a few weeks ago by saying, in an abundance of honesty, that she simply assumed I would spend the rest of my life alone. I asked her why. She replied that she has always seen me as a seeker, who never finds.
Is that praise, or a condemnation?
Disturbing Scene in a One-bedroom Apartment
It was impeccably well-organized, with some exceptions: there was, for example, no plaintive note, no “poor me” epistle that summed things up in an arithmetically imperfect stew of “I wish” and “They did”.
The rope, as it turned out, was of Japanese silk, of a rich purple, finely flexible so that it barely abraded the skin, and perhaps, at the end, might have almost seemed a caress.
Out of consideration to those who might come after, a waterproof tarpaulin was spread on the floor, beneath the feet of the rustic chair from Nova Scotia (the one that had been oddly repaired at some past point by replacing a broken stile with a shovel handle, hand tapered, and delicately mortised to fit the top rail). Since it wasn’t certain how long it would take for someone to come curiously by, the carpet would be saved from staining with the inevitable drippings.
The next tab marked a similar animation for the traditional hangman’s knot.
In the adjacent bathroom, more planning was evident. Two empty plastic squeeze bottles of saline laxative sat on the counter, likely administered so as to minimize the messy voiding of the bowel at the moment of death – which in the case of a hanging is particularly common, given the effect of muscular relaxation and gravity.
Also on the counter was an empty prescription container, filled the day before the incident, with sixty mild sedatives. Apparently, the plan included ingestion of the pills, which would be followed by unconsciousness, and the inevitable fall from the chair, at which point the rope would snap tight and perform its basic function.
The dark suit, white shirt and discreet tie were an unnecessary but tasteful flourish, which spoke well of further planning.
Little could be done about facial discoloration and the grotesque swelling of the tongue, but no plan can be perfect.
What was almost certainly unanticipated was the inexpensive Taiwanese steel that had been used to produce the eye-hook from which the purple rope was suspended. The cheap steel must have snapped shortly after the initial load was put on it. Shortly after, but not too shortly, as the purpose had obviously been accomplished before the final fall to the tarpaulin.
The other unanticipated factors were the two large cats, that over the course of several days, became increasingly hungry. Then, not so hungry.
Rimbaud at Disneyland 