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pluralwell my devoted reader(s),
life is a strangely surreal dance, of delightfully convulsing emotions and ideas.
what now you might inquire?
I am reeling gently in a sublime state of introspection, from a delightfully peculiar string of events mingling past and present.
Feeling hopes and desires while understanding the inevitable course which will never lead to fruition.
what could this be? if you have been paying any attention my dears you will of course already know,
tis my fatal flaw rearing its head once more....
I met a woman...
now before any of you think I am going to get all soppy on you, relax.
First of all, I do not believe in love at first sight, lust at first sight I believe in, but love doesn't stand a chance.
It was a perfectly impossible lust, true, convoluted lust
Who was it that swayed me so? it is not important, after all she was never important, it was merely what she represented which glimmered in my eyes, and if nothing else almost the absolute futility of this lust which I required most.
The setup is this, a young woman, whom was a friend of a friend, was coming to visit.
I could say that was all I knew, but it would be a lie....
In fact I knew far more than I had any right too...
I had a simple task, to seduce her....
not to seduce her to me, but to seduce her to Seattle.
You see, my friend, who is staying with me, held feelings and irrational thoughts for this woman. She had played him like a badly tuned violin for sometime. He was her fallback guy, the sweet friend who you run to when you are finished making mistakes with the jerk you have been dating.
They crossed the line of friendship more than a few times, and he wanted more, wanted to help her, to fix her, to love her....
poor bastard....
now I only say this from my experience, having been on both sides of that coin, having played the part of both the savior and the damned.
They arrived early Saturday morning shortly after my last journal entry, I was asleep and they followed suit.
I woke up, and set to my tasks....
I went to the grocery store and purchased the required items
12 eggs
Colby-jack cheese
Martenelli's sparkling apple cider
a white onion
a green pepper
6 firm white button mushrooms
a large container of fresh orange juice.
Vanilla yogurt
A variety of fresh fruits, namely raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, and seedless green grapes
I returned home to begin my work, dicing onions, julienne the pepper, thinly slicing the mushrooms and grating the cheese.
My omelet bar was ready, placing the ingredients in the fridge, I began the next step.
washing the fruits, I removed 3 red wine glasses from my cabinet, and placed a single raspberry in each.
using an ice cream scoop I gently placed a dollop of yogurt in the glasses, and added fruit and yogurt creating a divine multi layered parfait.
The taking a crystal cordial glass which I inherited in a round about fashion from my great grandmother, I placed in it several choice raspberries.
I went downstairs to each of them in turn, to where they were sleeping. I woke her up first, placing the berry upon her lips once she had opened her eyes, I breathed into her ear "wash up and come to the kitchen" and with decidedly less fanfare I next awoke him in a similar fashion.
I seated them at my breakfast bar, Vivaldi playing softly in the background and served them a concoction possibly of my own invention, which I call a Washington mimosa, a delightful combination of peach schnapps and martenelli's, and the fruit parfaits and with but a brief apology for future sins, as my omelet pan had walked out the door with my ex-girlfriend, proceeded to prepare the omelets...
let me, if you will digress for a moment,
the perfect omelet is not made with three eggs, but two, often people add milk to add weight or fluffiness, this is in error.
with a proper omelet pan, or in its absence a small non-stick skillet, one begins, as one does with any dish, with a dollop of butter, it is advisable to preheat your pan slightly but be careful to overdo it as you will burn the butter (a mortal sin my dahlins).
when making omelets with raw onions or peppers, I like to briefly saute them in butter before compiling the omelet, so in another pan with a dollop of butter, I will place an appropriate amount of these items.
then give the butter a brief moment to slide around the pan, while you crack open and beat well two eggs, this is best done in a double-old fashioned glass with a nice long pronged fork.
place the eggs into the skillet and leave them be. when the bottom of the eggs are firm, take the skillet in one hand and with a gentle flick of the wrist, slide them up and out of the pan and onto the other side.
cook this other side just long enough so it will not be runny, flip your omelet once more and add your filings. in this timing is of the essence, from the moment of the first flip you have to have everything ready so that you can assemble and serve the omelet in quick order.
This is done out of reverence for the highest god of cooking, presentation.. if you dally too long you will over cook the underside of your omelet which will become the outside and discolor the eggs with a distasteful brown. although a slight amount of this can be obscured with some delicately place cheese.
concocting three omelets in rapid order, we ate, Vivaldi's strings humming softly behind us, mulling over our options for the day.
I am not sure at which point I digressed from the perfect balance of seduction and marketing, I think my friends agitation as the day went on clouded things. You see, as is always the case when you sell your soul, and make deals you shouldn't, he found that the actualization of our arrangement was far less enchanting than he had fantasized.
In the end, it was this sabotage which defeated our well laid plans. I had her in my hands, putty to mold, its was only his jealousy which distracted her, and in the end ruined his plans. but enough about them, as this story is about me and they are hardly relevant players.
I saw in her a reflection of myself, you see, I am not a person, at least not in the conventional sense, I am collection of clones, of facades, each perfect for its own occasion. I change personalities as easily as I change clothes, and probably more frequently. I am one person when I hang out with my blue-collar friends, and quite a different person when debating the finer points of an opera with my old money friends and yet another discussing technologies with my dot.com executives.
The eternal problem I face with this is simple. Women generally fixate on one of these personae and set themselves upon defining me in those terms. this is an ultimately fatal course of action for none of my personae can survive without the others nor am I willing to accept the idea of limiting myself in such a way.
you see in myself I have this misguided fantasy that I will meet someone like myself who will understand this and not fall prey to this cycle.
of course most people with my particular psychosis live shambled lives never able to balance the various aspects to hobble together some sort of normalcy.
While, I am hardly superior in this regard, the combination of my generous intellect, roguish charm and unremorseful survival instinct has allowed me to advance and maintain my illusions far longer and more opaquely.
In truth, this fantasy is not about a woman at all, which is why I said she was unimportant to my tale. It is simply the yearning to love myself, to like who I am for what I am and can be, and in the end recognize that I am adequate.
life is a strangely surreal dance, of delightfully convulsing emotions and ideas.
what now you might inquire?
I am reeling gently in a sublime state of introspection, from a delightfully peculiar string of events mingling past and present.
Feeling hopes and desires while understanding the inevitable course which will never lead to fruition.
what could this be? if you have been paying any attention my dears you will of course already know,
tis my fatal flaw rearing its head once more....
I met a woman...
now before any of you think I am going to get all soppy on you, relax.
First of all, I do not believe in love at first sight, lust at first sight I believe in, but love doesn't stand a chance.
It was a perfectly impossible lust, true, convoluted lust
Who was it that swayed me so? it is not important, after all she was never important, it was merely what she represented which glimmered in my eyes, and if nothing else almost the absolute futility of this lust which I required most.
The setup is this, a young woman, whom was a friend of a friend, was coming to visit.
I could say that was all I knew, but it would be a lie....
In fact I knew far more than I had any right too...
I had a simple task, to seduce her....
not to seduce her to me, but to seduce her to Seattle.
You see, my friend, who is staying with me, held feelings and irrational thoughts for this woman. She had played him like a badly tuned violin for sometime. He was her fallback guy, the sweet friend who you run to when you are finished making mistakes with the jerk you have been dating.
They crossed the line of friendship more than a few times, and he wanted more, wanted to help her, to fix her, to love her....
poor bastard....
now I only say this from my experience, having been on both sides of that coin, having played the part of both the savior and the damned.
They arrived early Saturday morning shortly after my last journal entry, I was asleep and they followed suit.
I woke up, and set to my tasks....
I went to the grocery store and purchased the required items
12 eggs
Colby-jack cheese
Martenelli's sparkling apple cider
a white onion
a green pepper
6 firm white button mushrooms
a large container of fresh orange juice.
Vanilla yogurt
A variety of fresh fruits, namely raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, and seedless green grapes
I returned home to begin my work, dicing onions, julienne the pepper, thinly slicing the mushrooms and grating the cheese.
My omelet bar was ready, placing the ingredients in the fridge, I began the next step.
washing the fruits, I removed 3 red wine glasses from my cabinet, and placed a single raspberry in each.
using an ice cream scoop I gently placed a dollop of yogurt in the glasses, and added fruit and yogurt creating a divine multi layered parfait.
The taking a crystal cordial glass which I inherited in a round about fashion from my great grandmother, I placed in it several choice raspberries.
I went downstairs to each of them in turn, to where they were sleeping. I woke her up first, placing the berry upon her lips once she had opened her eyes, I breathed into her ear "wash up and come to the kitchen" and with decidedly less fanfare I next awoke him in a similar fashion.
I seated them at my breakfast bar, Vivaldi playing softly in the background and served them a concoction possibly of my own invention, which I call a Washington mimosa, a delightful combination of peach schnapps and martenelli's, and the fruit parfaits and with but a brief apology for future sins, as my omelet pan had walked out the door with my ex-girlfriend, proceeded to prepare the omelets...
let me, if you will digress for a moment,
the perfect omelet is not made with three eggs, but two, often people add milk to add weight or fluffiness, this is in error.
with a proper omelet pan, or in its absence a small non-stick skillet, one begins, as one does with any dish, with a dollop of butter, it is advisable to preheat your pan slightly but be careful to overdo it as you will burn the butter (a mortal sin my dahlins).
when making omelets with raw onions or peppers, I like to briefly saute them in butter before compiling the omelet, so in another pan with a dollop of butter, I will place an appropriate amount of these items.
then give the butter a brief moment to slide around the pan, while you crack open and beat well two eggs, this is best done in a double-old fashioned glass with a nice long pronged fork.
place the eggs into the skillet and leave them be. when the bottom of the eggs are firm, take the skillet in one hand and with a gentle flick of the wrist, slide them up and out of the pan and onto the other side.
cook this other side just long enough so it will not be runny, flip your omelet once more and add your filings. in this timing is of the essence, from the moment of the first flip you have to have everything ready so that you can assemble and serve the omelet in quick order.
This is done out of reverence for the highest god of cooking, presentation.. if you dally too long you will over cook the underside of your omelet which will become the outside and discolor the eggs with a distasteful brown. although a slight amount of this can be obscured with some delicately place cheese.
concocting three omelets in rapid order, we ate, Vivaldi's strings humming softly behind us, mulling over our options for the day.
I am not sure at which point I digressed from the perfect balance of seduction and marketing, I think my friends agitation as the day went on clouded things. You see, as is always the case when you sell your soul, and make deals you shouldn't, he found that the actualization of our arrangement was far less enchanting than he had fantasized.
In the end, it was this sabotage which defeated our well laid plans. I had her in my hands, putty to mold, its was only his jealousy which distracted her, and in the end ruined his plans. but enough about them, as this story is about me and they are hardly relevant players.
I saw in her a reflection of myself, you see, I am not a person, at least not in the conventional sense, I am collection of clones, of facades, each perfect for its own occasion. I change personalities as easily as I change clothes, and probably more frequently. I am one person when I hang out with my blue-collar friends, and quite a different person when debating the finer points of an opera with my old money friends and yet another discussing technologies with my dot.com executives.
The eternal problem I face with this is simple. Women generally fixate on one of these personae and set themselves upon defining me in those terms. this is an ultimately fatal course of action for none of my personae can survive without the others nor am I willing to accept the idea of limiting myself in such a way.
you see in myself I have this misguided fantasy that I will meet someone like myself who will understand this and not fall prey to this cycle.
of course most people with my particular psychosis live shambled lives never able to balance the various aspects to hobble together some sort of normalcy.
While, I am hardly superior in this regard, the combination of my generous intellect, roguish charm and unremorseful survival instinct has allowed me to advance and maintain my illusions far longer and more opaquely.
In truth, this fantasy is not about a woman at all, which is why I said she was unimportant to my tale. It is simply the yearning to love myself, to like who I am for what I am and can be, and in the end recognize that I am adequate.
