Reconnaissance

I have visited with The Other Side and perhaps I have a bit more information than I did yesterday. Perhaps not, though. It's always possible lately that I have dreamed everything that I think happened in my day, so I'd take this all with a grain of salt. But here we go any fucking way:

We. Women, I mean. Or people who identify themselves as such. Well. We're working toward an intimacy that is intangible. What we want is an idea. What we want is Closeness. We're looking for trust and trustworthiness and shared secrets and keys or at least little hints to the secret passages that another person holds really tightly until they decide to be Open.

Our whole M.O. is attempting to gain that. Even after many failures we will put ourselves on the line for it. If we are worth our salt we ask for it at least semi-directly and perform prolonged eye-gazings with the quiet hope that our commitment will be rewarded with the Golden Ticket. We give a lot in this quest. We admit things. We offer secrets that weren't asked for. And when we start to feel like we have hit another person's most impenetrable brick wall of defensiveness, we beg and plead.

They. Men, I mean. Or people who identify themselves as such. Well. They are looking for a material ingress. A literal point of entry. And they do many of the same things that women do in the hopes of getting that All Access Pass into our bodies, and very possibly into our souls as a result. Giving it all up physically really means something to men. It really feels like Sharing.

And tonight I'm hard-pressed to say that one goal is any more honorable than the other. I can tell you for certain that one hints at a lifetime and the other is ephemeral, though. I can also tell you that one is much harder to walk away from than the other.

But who is to judge? Not me, certainly. Having not provided a tangible ingress in longer than I care to admit to.

That said. It's fucking different. I like to think that plugging our brains into one another would solve it but after tonight I'm pretty convinced that doing that would be like watching Pulp Fiction when you are looking for Sex in the City, or vice versa. We would just take it all in and still apply our dumbass filters to it and possibly be left with nothing but a scathing review of another person's thought process.

My brain plug idea would only work if neither person wanted into the other person's heart or panties, is what I'm getting at.

Is this news? No. I'm sure Cosmo has already covered this bullshit ad nauseum. But it's a worthwhile discovery to make for yourself, given a safe environment and another person that you truly dig.

And last night Liz reminded me that rejection and the feelings it brings up usually have nothing to do with The Object of Desire. Rather, they bring us back to our earlier mini-deaths of being reminded that we aren't enough by the people that had a hand in our developmental years. This is not comforting, but at least brings my thinking to a more productive place. I can't fix him or him or him. But I can rethink the dramas I've associated with them all.

And after yesterday's massage? The lady told me I needed to go somewhere cheaper at least once a week for six months to work the knots out of my neck and shoulders before I even start to feel less like a walking ball of tension.

None of this is promising, but knowledge is power, ya?

Ya.

Gonna sleep like a baby tonight. Skip the gym tomorrow. Put on an outfit that makes me feel like I Own Shit and then go and Own Shit. Will keep you posted on any other developments from the front line.

Over and out.

Angelina