(And that’s ok)
It is another (Saturday) night of writing by myself; I am happy and content with this for my evening plans. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. I look forward to Saturday nights when I don’t have to go out and play cat and mouse.
I look forward to Monday nights when I write poetry; I look forward to Tuesday nights with my typewriter; I look forward to Wednesday nights at the gym, Friday night burritos with friends, Saturday morning get-togethers, Sunday morning Thai Chi, reading hours, nap times, junk food, meditations, The Lone Ranger, and listening to Mozart before bed. And hell, every once and a while, I like a good party on a Saturday night, too.
I like doing all these things because I love to do them, I love the people I do them with, and I love myself enough to do them.
I’ve been reading the poetry of Robert Frost lately, more and more often. He wrote, “To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” It is a heart condition for me, along with a mental illness of sorts, and a quarrelsome one at that. If you have been reading me for a while, you may have a general idea of what my poetic philosophy is: It is a paradox, and an over-idealism of the virtue of love which leaves me incapable of romance.
(Certainly things can change, they’ve only been this way for ten years, so who knows what tomorrow will bring – maybe I’ll get hit in the head with a brick and change my mind about everything. )
I don’t think it is the end of the world just because I’m alone. There is so much societal pressure to be with someone your whole life, so much so that it could really fuck up a kid.
Being in love is great. It is one of the great joys of life…like smoking. But you don’t have to smoke, or be in love, to be happy.
I think that my artistic/spiritual plight makes it difficult for me to be in a relationship (I’m working on it). There are plenty of other, good people, and great artists who are alone or have died alone: Vincent Van Gogh, Leonardo da Vinci, Octavia Butler, Emily Dickinson, Franz Kafka, David Lynch, Henry David Thoreau, Henry Rollins.
And there are other artists whose relationships led to their demise, such as Sylvia Plath, who killed herself after she found out her husband was having an affair. And my friend Romeo and his girlfriend Juliet both died because of bad communication.
I think that people can become cold if they are unloved, especially for too long. Last night, Valentine’s Day, I was at a dance. Before I went out, I knew I wasn’t going home with anyone (something I did not used to jump to conclusions about) and after about 10, I had seen enough and I did the man’s walk of shame – the walk home alone at night.
And it was sad, but I was sad because there is so much pressure on some romantic ideal when you get down to it. All of the couples I saw on my walk home (in a beautiful blizzard – romantic as hell if you ask me) just looked like they didn’t want to be out with their partner.
And people based their whole lives on this notion that you need to be with someone without asking why? Well, love is irrational.
It is a catch-22 that when I meet a girl, my brain jumps to if I would have sex with her or not, and then I usually invalidate her, regardless of the answer, because she wouldn’t understand. Is that me – the poet? Or has “The Love Story” and “Pornography” skewed what a relationship entails, and the result is a bunch of sour Valentine’s Day dinners.
Am I lonely? I’m lonely in the sense that I am not in love. And love, much like loneliness, adds a beauty to life. It’s two sides of the same coin. Because after I left the dance, feeling helpless and alone, surrounded by beautiful women and good friends but no magical woman on a horse, I went home, and I made “art,” the best substitute for the word “love” in this world I can find, besides maybe “peace” or “joy.”
And I had a grand old time by myself. I certainly did, laughing to myself, making jokes, talking aloud, eating pizza, and all the rest that a person believes they need from another person. I love myself, and that is enough. Most days, it is more than enough.
Now, I will say that there can be a crippling yearn for someone in my life. And I’ll end with a few things to consider.
1. Love ain’t no promise of happiness. Sometimes it is worse, but other times it is better. There is less of a risk with being alone; It is less of a reward, but the return is promised if you can give it to yourself. If you are looking for happiness, Love might not give you that, but in my experience, it can give you something happiness can’t.
2. All of this was written for someone in mind. So we can only love ourselves to death, but you’ve got to remember, Love is an extremely driving force in our lives that I don’t think can only be chalked up to societal expectations.
3. There is much more to love than excessive adoration. I am comfortable with my life, and I tell myself that most girls aren’t worth the trouble. And a part of that is true, I’m not going to compromise my life for someone who isn’t worth the juice. Self-worth and being vulnerable enough to let someone in are often at odds.
4. “I want to be with you. It’s as simple, and as complicated as that.” – Charles Bukowski.
Love doesn’t work out for everyone, and we need to stop vilifying people for being alone. I don’t know if I will get married or die alone, but I shouldn’t feel guilty for being who I am, as impossible as it might be for me to love and be loved.
Ben Bonkoske 