I hate destroyed beauty, unbuilt houses and unconsummated love. Intellectually, I don’t know where they go, whether they wait, and how to find the waiting room. Deeper, they hurt in me because they set an alarm in my being, they rudely fidget around and whine like aborted little squirrels on a heap of pale white flowers.

Breath in, and…

…yes, pale, moving, palpable white flowers.

Each unconsummated love is a trapped soul, and somehow, I am not wise enough to locate the door through which they can exit freely.

I only know how forget and move on, lock them, scramble them in so that I can’t hear them. But the glistening squirrel eyes lurk underneath, waiting for a trigger–a film, a sound, a hint–and then they jump out and shout: “Surprise!”

My personal purgatory parlor: Being pregnant with the miracle of interaction, the mystery of life and the perpetuum mobile of all.

And suddenly, it makes sense.

Technorati Tags: life, love, very happy

However, I have a mouth. So I asked. And I was told by true relationships bloggers that “fade” is when a person you date, goes missing in action.

Mmmm that.

Slippery subject, this fade.

When it happened to me in the past, I was terribly heartbroken. Unspeakably, nuclear-war-like, stuck-in-the-scream-like devastated.

It was rough.

It made me stronger.

Since I became stronger, it hasn’t happened to me.

If I were to pontificate, I’d say that a man who wants to leave me and hide from me, is clearly not good for me, regardless of what I have (or have not) imagined. Problem solved, more or less.

It does not decrease the pain levels, but it makes life helluva lot easier.

Generally speaking, I am no longer interested in untangling the tormented male’s mysteries, if he doesn’t love me in the way that my soul demands I should be loved.

Tormented people are really not that interesting. A little torment is zestful, but an ounce more, and I am looking for the door. Now, my personal torment is when… no, a subject for another time.

Laters, faders.

P.S. Years ago, I wrote a song about what we now know is called fade. When I feel happy, I am rather ashamed of this song. When I feel artsy, I think it’s an amazing fucking tune. Welcome to the Libra universe!

THE INSOMNIACS CLUB says:

Don’t Say Hello by Simone Grant
Sometimes Silence is the Best Closure by MetAnotherFrog
Fade To Black by The Urban Dater
The Fade by Miss Melisa Mae
You Say Fade? I Say Cop-Out by Women Are From Mars
To Fade or Not to Fade by Jess Downey
Fadeaway and Forget-Me-Not by FeistyWoman
Eyes Open By Totally Tyler
Where The Hell Did You Go by SingleMuch
Fading Into the Shadows by Miss Taylor Cast
50 Ways to Leave Your Lover by F*cking in Brooklyn

I am starting to understand why I’ve never been drawn to seductions beyond presenting myself at my best. Nobody explained this to me, I had to figure it out myself.

When I was younger, lacking the praised predatory skill felt awkward, but I am suddenly understanding this, and wow, it makes perfect sense.

I’ve never liked to trick men because I’ve never cared for sleeping with zombies.

As a person with a big ego, I like being loved, and I like gifts, and I like being told that I am the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, but I want them to feel that, and to arrive at that conclusion on their own.

In the words of Marvin Gaye, “I want you, and I want you to want me, too”.

I am notorious for picking wretched scandals whenever I feel a strong generous emotion that only goes one way — from me to the other person. It usually goes like this: “Look, I care and you don’t, so I am gone”.

I’ve even done it to friends.

It is literally the most draining situation for me, because I am anything but self-sacrificial, and my emotions are raw and self-assured. Seduction beyond the natural shining, feels like sweating a marketing pamphlet designed to shove an ancient treasure up someone’s throat. Why would I need to force a treasure upon any unwilling soul?

Yes I cry, and I feel lonely, and I stand there for a couple of minutes with the precious gift in my extended hands, but then I think to myself, what the fuck? And I feel aroused about my future again.

It’s my weakness and my strength, and I wish they taught those things in schools, sigh.

.

Technorati Tags: happy, love, Understanding

The two beautifully contrasting giants travelled together. They had sex. I didn’t. I was on the run from a doomed love, but I didn’t have the courage to actually do it with a new man. I was pensively single.

The albino girl was visibly in love. The arms of her affection spread out to the Buenos Aires fellow so graphically, that you could almost touch her love with bare hands, as if it were steam. The guy, on the other hand, was getting bored with traveling–and with her. He wanted to go back to home.

One day, he went home. I felt very sorry for her.

Before he left, he casually invited me to come to Buenos Aires one day. May be, I said, and then forgot his name. Of course, I forgot. He was somebody else’s heartbreaker.

For some reason, Buenos Aires is calling me. Perhaps, Julio Cortazar has done a great subliminal job at romanticizing it… Or, may be, just like Obama, I simply crave change.

A figurative bath in a warm, non-American culture, surrounded by men who are all my type.

Never thought about it seriously, but for some reason, in my imagination, Buenos Aires is growing real. Is it a sign?

A hippopotamus walks up to a frog who is sitting in the water. “Hey, frog,” he says, “How warm is the water?”
“How rude,” the frog responds. “I am a woman, not a thermometer.”

~Russian joke

Today, as I was lying in bed, I figured out something about life. My bed is the place where I walk into many of my discoveries. This morning, I was thinking about love, and how come my desire to help the men I love is inconsistent with their desire to be tormented.

When I love a man, tormenting him is impossible; when I don’t, I can’t help it.

If it is purification through pain that the man is looking for, I can’t win with him. In order to titillate his pain receptors, I have to stop loving him. But then, what’s in it for me? An ego boost? Very nice. But I need to feel that thing–love. That’t what I am after. And to me, it does not mean self-sacrifice.

Not too long ago, I finally unlearnt emotional masochism. My teacher was pain: As soon as it became too much, too many times, too endless, I learnt that there was no automatic end to it. That it won’t go away just because the world is a beautiful place, or because God is kind. The world will always remain a beautiful place, but if I don’t choose wisely, it will hurt, very much. And never, never stop. It cured me instantly.

I wonder why they don’t teach it at school.

Now that I have wised up, I hope that more men whose nature appeals to me, who have tasted enough pain to know what it feels like to be human, unlearn masochism, somehow. Quickly. This way, my love life will be much easier.

Because, frankly, I am a woman, not a thermometer.

Technorati Tags: love, sex, truth

Just realized that when I was growing up in Russia, “underwear” was not sexualized in my culture at all. Underwear was a clothing item that everybody would put on first thing in the morning. And there was no “sexy”. Instead, there was “beautiful”.

A story that somebody told me: When the first puffs of fresh American air touched the totalitarian steppes of the Soviet Union, and Russian girly magazines started reprinting articles from their Western counterparts, this girl read in a magazine that she would surely seduce a man by whispering the magical phrase: “Oh…baby…I forgot to put on my panties today!”

Feeling very sly, she looked at her husband and did it. The husband looked back at her and said: “What’s wrong with you? Do you have sclerosis?”

… And now I am curious. What are the male underwear stereotypes in American culture? In all my years here, I never bothered to ask about the stereotypes.

For example, when I was growing up, boxers were a pariah. They were called “family underwear” and symbolized a sloppy family man with a belly. For a while, I thought they were indeed laughable. By now, I could care less.

As I am typing this, I am looking at a website featuring cloned metrosexual men wearing the kind of underwear that puts me in a very good mood, because it makes me laugh. No, I am not a pervert (at least, I am not a pathetic pervert). I honestly went there for a grammatical reference. You have to believe me.

Technorati Tags: random, Thoughts before breakfast, Underwear

MARKETING. NOT ABOUT JACK.

I know, I shouldn’t worry–but I do. I know, I (as opposed to others – yes, lolz) can handle the muddy waters of the Public Interface–most of the time.

The silly, unnatural, but almost certainly expected set of twitches that the Interface knows how to eat. In case of bloggers, the Interface eats clever tweets, thought-through sound bites, and artful self-glorification.

I’ve swum in those waters for a while, and had my mouth full of water a couple of times before I stopped picking up behaviors from people who aren’t  like me. Truth be told, I got ethereally bored with the format.

BUT BACK TO JACK

After a minute or two, I had to accept the fact that I am not the only one with a ton of curiosity. And that the muddy waters are for grabs.

Jack is one of my favorite New Yorkers. Very curious. Really talented. Which means: The Insomniacs Club is only marginally about the Interface. For the most part, it is about expanding the horizons and trying out new things.

An important piece of information: Speaking for myself, I don’t care for insomnia one bit. In fact, I really like to sleep.

AND NOW TO THE POINT

With that, let me introduce the glorious members of the Insomniacs Club. Some of them, I have the honor to know and love personally, and some–virtually.

F*cking in Brooklyn (that’s Jack), All The Single Ladies, Simone Grant, The Book of Love Was Written By A Sadist, Thank You For Your Sex™ (that’s me), Feisty Woman, Women Are From Mars, Met Another Frog, KB in NYC, Mike the Master Dater, The Urban Dater, How Very Lucky To Be A Girl, Miss Taylor Cast, Manshopper, AV Flox, Totally Tyler.

Once a month, we are planning to blog about one topic. All of us.

TOPIC # 1

“What-Would-You-Do-If-You-Discovered-That-Your-Significant-Other-Had-An-Active-Dating-Profile?”

Personally, I have no idea. I don’t even want to think about it. I have a feeling I am probably past dating dicks. I try to sniff people out (figuratively, for the most part) before I get with them; and I accept the fact that life means movement.

If I am lucky, I will find somebody who I will excite continuously, and who will excite me continuously. Hopefully,  we will start out turned on and compatible, and grow perpetually in individual directions that will work well with one another–and keep both of us turned on.

Staying with somebody when it doesn’t feel awesome, just because several thousand years ago somebody said it’s a good thing, is silly. Being stayed with for the same reason is humiliating.

Conclusions: Most conclusions are temporary; and also, if I were to find out that my man is looking for a date online, I would ask him, what he wants from me.

Probably, suffer. Probably, leave. But I hope to be loved by the art of feeling, and avoid the nonsense.

And, as all things Tao, this blog just expired as soon as I hit “Save”.

…Here is what other members of the Insomniacs Clubs say:

Confirming My Suspicion by Simone Grant
Awaiting Vesuvius by F*cking in Brooklyn
Cheating in Cyberspace by MetAnotherFrog
Does it Matter if Your Lover has an Online Dating Profile by The Urban Dater
Active in the Last 24 Hours by Miss Taylor Cast
Secret Online Profiles by Women Are From Mars
Online Dating Losers Who Keep You and Their Profiles by FeistyWoman
What Would an Insomniac Do? by Very Lucky to Be a Girl

I am free to do whatever I want. Human happiness, freedom is human happiness. I am breathing.

I am roaming Midtown, it feels like Moscow. New York adopts a different face when you are single, more attractive and more indifferent.

Train — home — hope — question marks — a cup of tea — another cup of tea — like it was when I was a kid sitting on the museum floor in Moscow. Freedom. Question marks.