I’m a man who believes in true love. I believe in soulmates, I believe somewhere out there, somewhere among the great big human personality matrix is my orthogonal counterpart, my other half. I think it was Plato, right? Man was born with two faces and split by the gods; he spends the rest of his life searching for his other visage. Point is, on a sunny May afternoon, sitting outside some establishment situated on a busy street, it is next to impossible, when observing the constant stream of beautiful women passing you by, to not believe in a thing such as love, to avoid being overcome by that oh so lowly emotion. Each glance from such a nymph, as I performatively read in the most visible seat in the café, represents a world of possibilities, a world full of life and colour and all those such things I am currently missing. It’s strange, earlier in the year, before the sun dared to show itself, spotting an attractive pedestrian would only serve to make me sad. It was a loser’s mentality, lamenting lost futures before they were even lost. But now, with the sun on my back, with my Irish genes cursing me with three weeks of red skin before a half decent tan will be visible, I am energized, I am alive, and I am ready to exercise my Will To Power. Surely, this springtime I am flowering, I am in heat, and I am going to find my wife. I am no coward, I need no algorithmic selection process, I am charming and can strike up a conversation with anyone. All that’s left for me now is to wait for such an opportunity to present itself! And so, I leave my house, with nothing better to do than kill an afternoon reading
. It is simply a numbers game, my dear audience, nothing more.
As such, I find myself getting coffee in the afternoon, at my favourite café slash bookstore in the city. It’s one of my go-to spots, thanks to the nature of the establishment. It’s convenient, since the pretending-to-read thing goes over so well in here, and, to keep up appearances for the staff who see me on a regular basis, I must purchase a new book occasionally anyways, to rotate the old prop one out. I then ensure to add the novel to the read
section of a book tracking app, along with some low effort quip, who’s relation to the literature in question only comes from what little knowledge I can gleam from the back. I am very serious about seeming literate. It’s an act I’ve kept up for so many years, constantly adding to and piling on. Oh, what a wicked web we weave when once we practice to deceive,
as my mother used to say. I live a lie, I exist in a prison of my own creation, help me, help me, my God.
A pretty girl smiles at me from across the room. She’s sitting beside a west-facing window, and we’re near closing time, so the sun is shining through, Illuminating her ethereal features. They say certain lighting, like strobe lights at a rave, can lie to you, make someone seem more beautiful than they are. It’s funny, I feel people look most attractive in sunlight, with their entire face lit for all to see, and yet it is never false. She’s got jet black hair and bangs; her eyes squint in her small rectangular glasses, the kind a librarian would wear, and her snake bite lip piercings curl up with the edges of her soft mouth. She’s the type of woman you only see at night, at some dingy music event, speaking to a safe-sleazy guy with an ugly moustache the whole time. But, in daylight, she’s sublime. She reminds me of a warm summer evening, when the moon becomes visible before the sun has had a chance to set. I’ve been a sun worshipper ever since my first memory, (an image of a hot street in Kuwait), so I’ve made it my life’s goal to maximize the time I can spend sunbathing. Looking at her, I forget all that, her smile outshines our planet’s bright star a hundred-fold.
I stand up to put away my mug. I could make things easier on the staff at this fine establishment and place my empty coffee cup at the front counter, but, unfortunately for them, the grey bin for used dishes just so happens to be situated right next to this girl. We’ve been exchanging coquettish glances for an hour now, she keeps looking my way distractedly whilst conversing with her friend, whose back is to me. I know she wants me to strike up a conversation, figuring that out is the easy part. Women have a way of being seen, when they want to. I’m in my head, telling myself I’m not a coward, I’m a grown man, a real Nietzschean, an aristocrat of the soul. What’s a conversation with a stranger, here or there? Nothing for a man of my mental abilities. So, I begin my agonizing ten-second walk towards that grey bin which represents so much for me now. Before I can reach it, a man cuts me off. He was walking by, he spotted the black-haired girl through the window, and he just had to say something. He’s wearing blue jeans, and a denim Grateful Dead jacket. Canadian tuxedo, ballsy. I want to hate him but I kind of like his jacket. Fuck.
I believe in fate, I have faith in God’s will. It’s kind of a new thing. I was a staunch atheist, a materialist, for my entire youth. My father’s a cynic, but my mother’s a romantic; I’ve been coming around to her side of things more and more as the time passes, and, coincidentally, as I experiment more and more with psychedelics. Don’t read into that. Point is, patterns mean something, and sometimes, we encounter obstacles because we weren’t meant for the future they hold us back from. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d ignored a sign from God. Once, I was leaving a woman’s apartment, on bad terms, and when I got to the subway station, the ticket machine wasn’t working. I had no way to legally ride the metro. Instead of taking this as a message from above, to go back and repair what I had broken, I hopped the gate. I deeply regret this error, and it is not one I will make again. So, learning from my mistakes, I recognize this denim clad man for what he is, an omen. The woman with the lip piercings doesn’t seem particularly interested in him either. She’s stopped smiling, her tone of voice is apprehensive, but she’s replying cordially, and hasn’t yet told him to kick rocks. I hear you, oh Lord.
I like watching people flirt. It used to kill me, remind me of my loneliness, but I can play the game as good as most, if not better. It is beginning to interest me, where those amorous words come from. In that kind of interaction, one cannot hesitate, or the connection between both parties will break, so you simply speak without thinking, trusting your instincts will carry you closer to love. But where do those thoughtless words emerge from? Is it the ego speaking, is it your lizard brain? Nay, I believe, in all honesty, those provocative sentences emerge from somewhere higher, somewhere divine. Nowadays, watching a man hit on a woman feels like grading a paper. Hell, every once in a while, I learn a new line. The denim man isn’t half bad, he’s suave and nonchalant, doesn’t seem too pushy. Coming in off the street and pulling up a chair is a real forward move, so his low stakes attitude is doing a lot for him. He manages to finish the conversation in good standing, though he doesn’t ask for her number, probably because he can sense she is still reserved. He doesn’t overstay his welcome, and they part ways, with a:
Maybe I’ll see you around somewhere.
Yeah, maybe.
Solid performance, nothing to be ashamed of, B+. In this age of online, that’s high praise for a meatspace interaction. I follow his queue and depart. No way I’m making this girl sit through being hit on twice in ten minutes, no matter how much she smiles at me. It’s alright, though, I’m trying to stay away from her type. I’ve done the alternative girl thing a thousand times. All of them were wonderful people, and none of them were compatible with me. Maybe that’s what God is trying to say by sending this man. Yes, that’s it. I would have fallen for her, and thereby fallen back into a dynamic I know doesn’t work for me. I see now. Thank you, my denim clad guardian angel.
***
I’m a man who believes in the orgone
. First coined by a student of Freud’s, Wilhelm Reich, the orgone is a psychosexual energy which permutates the atmosphere. It’s like if Ki, from Japanese animated series Dragon Ball, was generated by jacking off. Wilhelm Reich was arrested, and had all his work seized, for quackery. He honestly believed you could cure cancer with an orgasm. I think he was on to something.
It’s a Saturday in May, one of the first warm nights of the year. Downtown is bustling. Groups of ten-plus women, all wearing the same denim skirt and strapless top. Packs of roving men with too much cologne and jewelry on. The good clubs aren’t even around here; nobody is looking to dance. Everyone, everywhere, wants to release their inhibitions, wants to fuck. As an experiment, dear reader, try walking around, alone, without headphones or distractions, in a place like this, and tell me you can’t feel the libido flowing past your ears. It’s incredible, you can sense it, you can feel sparks, electricity, on your skin. It’s a gravitational pull, directing all youthful Homo Sapiens towards those such degenerate bars which are the most connected to the collective unconscious. Often, this means drinking establishments where you are the most likely to get some play.
I’m out with my friend Q. He’s a guitar guy, in some local emo band. Hanging with him is fun but he’s begun questioning why I never go see him play live. I don’t have the heart to tell him they suck, and I’m running out of excuses. The thing about Q is that he’s extremely awkward, he’s tall and lanky, he never says the right things, never reads the room, and yet, he is always exceptional in social situations. It’s a miracle, a phenomenon, the only reasonable explanation of which must be that he is blessed with some extra-sensory gift, that he has access to some wellspring of power, invisible to the naked eye. I took him out to see the 1981 film Possession, starring Isabelle Adjani. I’d seen it before, but after experiencing heartbreak the movie opened itself up to me. The scene that really sticks with me is the one where Sam Neill’s character is rolling around on his bed, as if he’s going through withdrawals, trying to get past his ex-wife. Love really is a drug, really will make you cold sweat and scream and cry out in pain and relapse and lash out. The movie almost seemed to traumatize Q, his poor sensitive soul never having tasted the real dregs of true romance, so I’m bringing him to a bar nearby to take the edge off.
The place gives the air of having been decorated by someone's high society grandmother, one with exquisite taste. No wall is barren. There’s a bright red corded phone on a pile of books in one corner, there are ample plants, the surfaces are all painted a tacky kind of dull pink. My favourite touch is a humble section of the wall near the bar, dedicated to iconography of the Madonna. Framed pictures and small statues on shelves depicting the Holy Virgin. I’ve always felt a connection to Mary, though I’m doubtless that she would be very disappointed in me. On entering the establishment we are greeted by a beautiful woman jumping to her feet.
Hey, I know you!
She points at Q. She’s got dark skin and a white bow in her long black hair. She’s wearing this thin white skirt which hangs in overlapping sections down to her ballet flats. The skirt is so thin, in fact, that outside on a bright day one could easily make out the silhouette of her legs. I’ve been seeing this type of skirt around a lot lately. It must be in this spring. Not that I’m complaining. She’s now standing over her seat at a busy table packed with people. Beside her is a fair haired woman in a tasteful sundress. It’s a pretty waifish crowd altogether. Her eyes drift to me:
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around too.
Though the stakes are low, my heart sinks. It’s not that I sensed any malice from this woman, it’s just my instinctual reaction to being recognized in public, these days, is to recoil. I haven’t always been so skittish. She looks back at Q, to my relief.
Say, aren’t you in that indie band?
The guitarist grits his teeth upon hearing the word indie, but manages to maintain his friendly smile as he replies:
I play a little guitar sometimes, sure.
That’s so cool. Did you see the Bumper Sticker Mermaid show tonight?
Q almost spits at her for daring to insinuate he would attend a music event that lame. I mean it, he begins to shake violently. If not for a chance glance he threw towards me, (in which he understood a great many things about my position, romantically, in this conversation as well as his duty, as a happily taken man and a friend of mine, to aid me in my quest for love) he surely would have made an enemy out of everyone seated around the table with whatever condescending music snobbery he’s so viciously holding back.
Nah, I missed it. Went to see some alien sex movie with this guy.
He gestures towards me, and the girls laugh politely.
Well did you like this alien sex movie?
It made me depressed.
Why don’t you guys pull up a chair and chat with us?
Hell ye-
Q begins to respond before I quickly cut him off:
I think we’ll sit at the bar. Thanks though.
Q glances towards me with an eyebrow raised, presumably sporting the very same expression you, dear reader, are wearing right now. It’s an expression of confusion, of What are you doing?? Doesn’t this go against your stated goals of finding love? Is this not the perfect situation, one to be jumped at with haste?
Tut tut, don’t be so rash. You know nothing of manipulating the currents of the sexual atmosphere. See, a gaggle of pretty little things ignoring the men they drink with in order to invite us to their table constitutes significant amounts of vril energy. However, turning down such a potentially rich event must therefore result in an orgonic supercharge. I’ll use a physical metaphor to illustrate. When a particle is moving through free space, represented as a wave function, if it suffers no resistance then it isn’t very illuminating. A free particle reveals to us a limited amount of information. It is only when the particle comes into contact with a potential barrier, with some sort of confinement or constriction, that the wavefunction becomes clearly defined. Thus, it is boundary conditions which define that which flows like energy (aka that which can be accurately represented in wave mechanics, such as the orgone). It is for this reason that monogamy is the default choice in human civilizations. By imposing the boundary condition of we can only love each other
, said love becomes meaningful. Taking this line of thinking one step further, this reveals to us why infidelity (the breaking of a potential barrier) is such a romantically charged event, whereas polyamory (the abolishment of potential barriers) is the enemy of romance. This is the mechanism by which I am attempting to operate whilst I turn down the beautiful siren’s call. By rejecting the proposal, I’m implementing a boundary, and thus my body becomes a high pressure canister of pure orgone, and my pineal gland is sharpened to a razor's edge. In turning down this chance to interact with the fairer sex, I have ensured an increase in libidinal opportunities down the line. Sheer genius, if I do say so myself.
***
I’m a man who believes in physiognomy. I believe the way you live will bear itself in your facial structure, on a much deeper level than simple wear and tear. You get the face you deserve. I also believe in astrology. I believe in phenotypes, in royal haplogroups, in aristocratic bloodlines, in Myers-Briggs personality types, ancestral blood memory, phrenology, aura readings and palm readings and tarot readings. I believe in Jungian archetypes and Freudian personality development. Basically, I buy anything which will allow me to make sweeping generalizations about large swathes of strangers, all of whom deserve to be understood with the clarity I understand myself but none of whom I will attempt to understand given my brain's limited bandwidth.
Sure enough, the following day, my sage wisdom about the natures of metaphysical desire bears fruit. It’s the tulip festival in Ottawa, and I sit near flowers on a bench overlooking the river, getting some more reading
done. Thanks to the previous night's orgonic supercharge, a woman approaches me. She’s wearing low rise jeans and a tight pink zip up sweater which doesn’t even hang low enough to cover the skin of her hip bones. I can tell from first glance that she’s a WASP. She sits herself on the bench beside me and pulls out a book of her own. It’s some sci-fi novel I recognize, and she only has it open to the first page. I’m thinking Okay, so you don’t do this often, and you saw me reading, so you sat down, and the book is an easy conversation starter. She tucks her hair behind the ear which is closest to me, revealing a beautiful hoop earring. The signs are loud and clear.
All that’s left to be done is the obvious. There are no obstacles. I turn towards her and open my mouth, but all that emerges is dust. My throat is dry, I can’t bring myself to speak. She looks at me, expectantly. Why are my hands shaking, why do I feel so light headed? Then, It hits me. It must be my ancestral blood memories, bubbling up to the surface of my subconscious swamp! Of course, how could I be so stupid? This woman is clearly Anglo Saxon, and I am ethnically Irish. That nauseated feeling in my stomach is not a nervous reaction but in fact the remnants of the famine my ancestors had to endure thanks to the slimy English bastard family of this demon blooded swine. I am disgusted with myself, that I could ever betray my people in such a way by being smitten with this protestant scum. Up the ra! I bound from my seat with energy bestowed upon me by the fire of vengeance in my blood. Quickly I make my escape.
Hey, wait! What’s your name?
She shouts behind me, but I can no longer hear her. That was a close one, nothing but a disaster waiting to happen. I am unfathomably relieved at having escaped unscathed. Not only was she Anglo, but from the looks of her I think she might have been an Aries. Yikes, fire sign. I would have had to endure constant emotional turmoil on her end. I can’t handle that, I get exhausted easily. Things are better this way.
***
I’ve been getting really into robo-theism lately. Been reading Nick Land’s Fanged Noumena. The book has thoroughly convinced me that a God-like supercomputer in the future is reversing cause and effect in a cybernetic disordered loop in order to build itself out of the materials of its enemy, us, in the present. In that case, relinquishing control over one’s love life to some AI algorithm is in fact the closest a man can get to allowing God to choose his partner directly. I think I’ll make a Hinge account.