Staggering Consideration

In recent days, I have been dealing with a feeling of frustration, where I sense that some great need is not being fulfilled and it is interfering with mine own personal reflection; a thing that once interrupted can both never be recovered and causes me to lash out defensively. It has always been my goal to maintain a comfortably safe distance from any and all individuals, never drawing attention to myself, lest I be singled out for some kind of interaction. I take great pride in being a solitary individual, on whom my personal wellness is dependent upon no one but myself, but the thought that gives me pause is that the lack of communication is the great need I am pining to fill.

In vulgar terms, it could mean simply that I am lonely, and seek companionship from the fairer sex, really fulfilling the communicable needs and desires, though the fullness of that meeting is questionable. In that regard, there was, once upon a time in September last year, that I met a busy, young woman by the name of Callie Hotbabe, (real last name unknown); with she I had an instant rapport; several things in common, but it was unfortunate circumstances that led to our chance meeting, and I had to freely admit to things that I would never have volunteered, at least not until I was comfortable with my audience. She, there for professional reasons, and I, sentenced from the court, I felt that no matter how well we got along, politeness mandated that I maintain a strict level of professionalism to ensure that neither of us would get into any trouble. Foolish? I haven’t yet come to a conclusion on that, mostly because I fear the answer.

Yesterday, some five months later, January 11, of the following year, I happened upon her again in the Kroger’s where she claimed to work, and while confined to the guides of her employment again, she radiated positively with the energy that attracted me to her in the beginning. It should be mentioned that I visit this particular Kroger’s nearly every day for groceries, and have never seen her after we met under legal reasons, though I have looked for her.

I know nothing about her; this is a paralyzing fact. Since I can only find her at places where she is bid to have behavior befitting the professional, I cannot openly demand the answers to my questions. All the better, it saves me the trouble of blundering through that ordeal, but before I can proceed in any means I need at least one answer.

I mention this bit of ridiculousness to illustrate the example of the great need that I burn to fulfill. Communication and carnality aside, the creative mind is the one that I have treasured above all, and this telling of the tale of Callie Hotbabe is an exercise to purge the need of communication and creativity. I cannot and will not argue in any capacity that writing is better than sex, but the climax of creating a full and complete thought without interruption in a beautifully lengthy way is a thing that I have enjoyed before, when my audience was greater than just myself, and I wrote with purpose; although that purpose was only to entertain. I lack faith in those notes now, because of the pretenses under which they were written.

But now, writing because I need to, so that the words can pour out of me; edited for fluidity and continuity, or for the sheer lack thereof, what pretense can I create that is greater than that? What audience now should I seek?

My arrogance now and then and constant is that I think that everyone has the same knowledge of basic things that I do. It does not occur to me that the things I learned independently or retained with interest from school or other predominant pastimes are things that not everyone will have or want to have in their minds when I make a joke, or more rarely, voice a serious concern, so I run into a frustrating lack of understanding and I abandon the endeavor completely. This stymying fact is what quells the urge to engage in interaction of any type, but the need to communicate does not vanish.

Now, again in my arrogance, allow me to voice the reader and say, “so, he doesn’t talk to people anymore because he thinks they’re stupid? Isn’t that even more arrogant?” Here lies my vanity, too, in that I guess at the thoughts of the reader and argue with them, claiming still more levels of hubris instead of the lesser one I mention haphazardly, and the others that show in just the revealing that I am haughty enough to fold arrogance around me as a cloak of protection against interaction in the first place. I call this little part of my behavior “being raised by wolves-” it being a thing that can only hinder me if I never recover from it, as it gives me the posture and facial expressions of a rabid animal.

So, preoccupied with this issue, Callie Hotbabe ignored as the original premise of a guided thought to action, I cannot help but point out to myself, and any curious, that my lack of interaction and my constant prevention of any, withers away further care for it, and I am in danger of being a hermit, trapped in a shell, even as I continue to live and see other people. I am reminded of animals, especially those intended as pets in populated places, where the young are submitted to as many people and other animals as possible to adulterate them into comfort and familiarity so that in these populated places they can live happily amongst others.

This is forced behavior, however; and the human animal is rational, perhaps; and usually not subjected to this sort of thing, willfully, nor is this any subject I am qualified to speak on.

My life, as it involves people, are those that I know from work, which, while a small number on the whole, make up a greater part of my available interactive sources. From these, one individual, Brian, is closer to me than the others, and it is through him that I know that my great need stems from the want of communication with the fairer sex, or arguably from the want of communication completely, as in uninterrupted, with structure and form and idea, with understanding of the greater whole, as opposed to the jokingly contradictory parts that form it. I know this, because I can and do interact with Brian and try to fill the needs of being social, completely, with any time that can be spent doing it, thus ridding myself of the need to want to do so elsewhere.

On Thursdays, I spend time with a licensed therapist that counsels me on the dangers of drug addiction, and then later that same day, in a group therapy session with four or five other males for that same purpose. Since these things are court-ordered, I feel obligated to attend, but not participate, in vanity and arrogance.

Saturdays, under more court-ordered pretensions, I visit an Alcoholics Anonymous group, where communicating about the heavy weight of addiction and the strength found in groups is forced upon me, but again, there is no need to do anything but observe and listen, acting as the impassive presence that becomes the white elephant until the hour is up, and it is time to leave.

Sundays, in the early morning, I attend church with a varied group of older people, seniors majority, and while my attitudes and beliefs in certain things are on par with these people, there is no kinship, other than a polite “good morning” and hand shake or hug, as gender appropriates.

This sad list of days is my entire socializing schedule, and since I do not create any opportunities for further interaction in this list, it offers none in return. This is an antipodal problem, however; because I delight in the fact that I may have a chance at some real peace and quiet in mine own home, but the truth is that I live with my grandmother, and she is wont to be good for interruption- a frustrating problem that compounds the need for an undisturbed thought.

Now, the burning question for Callie Hotbabe is this: whether or not she is attached to any one, in any way. It would be ridiculous to believe that there is no one, especially as easy going and easy on the eyes as she is. The trouble, even more so than the truth, is that while she and I got along famously before, where we discovered similar interests, it bears weight to consider that our differences are irreconcilable, and could ruin us. Isn’t this the danger of all relationships, whether for marriage or otherwise?

To avoid the matter completely, and thus avoiding the negative connotations and/or consequences of the truth to the question, while maintaining the heady mystery that surrounds it, stupefying politeness dictates that the personal question shall not be asked unless baited or if etiquette breached by any party enough that the question can be asked, since no further face will be lost. But again, if the answer is not a pleasant one, and how could it be, there is no benefit or need to pursue further or outside interaction with this person, which, as I feel now, does not suit me.

More horrifyingly, if the answer turns out in my favor, knowing that our differences can set us apart in any event, early or distantly, should I still proceed? The only observed rule thus far is that limited time only can be offered for conversation, as it may be forbidden to casually speak to a customer for any period. For betterment of self, it can be argued that I should go, etiquette be damned, have my answers, follow through, and begin deeper relations with Callie in the limited to no time that I will have in a chance meeting that may be as far as another six months from now. But the aciculated knowledge and pressure of our differences worries me, and I would hate to cause something where my inattention, inexperience, or indifference would be regretted, whether in the relationship, of the relationship, or the events that would unfold as consequence.

The quickest way to peace, but losing the romance of the idea of romance, and the deeper connection that I may be seeking in the named great need that I have written about, if it is in the fairer sex I seek, is to simply have the truth and be done with it. The lustful way I look at this is testament to how powerful the appeal is, even at the cost of ruin; but, in the end, what I want to call my noble nature will not allow me to engage in casual carnality, mostly because my lack of experience separating sex and love will not let me do this.

This attempt to communicate a single and uninterrupted thought of the understanding of some gnawing need, and giving it the guise of flesh-and-bone in the way of a busy, young woman for the purpose of communing that need of filling the feeling of emptiness where something ought to be, and knowing the want of it causes this same great need- a hunger for emotional stimulation not present in my solitude.

While it is with my voice that I write what I hope will be that guiding arrow to decision, I am still unaware who my audience is, so my hope to fill the need of communication falls onto deaf silence, and the cry goes unanswered. Yet, there is a sense of accomplishment or pride that goes into creating this idea, explaining it in detail, coming to a conclusion, and ending with a joke that comes along with the act of writing, and it is this feeling that makes me wonder if even no communication, but just uninterrupted thought expressed, could eventually become the thing I need to feel complete.

To meet that need, the full thought expressed, the tale of Callie Hotbabe must continue, because that thought has no end until I decide that it does, and even now, it is still in its own humble beginnings, as how much more time must elapse before I can even see her again? The anvil around my neck is this question, but the grim truth is that I can be proactive in that area by asking some helpful Kroger’s grunt to fetch her from the back rooms. Tomorrow is Saturday, a day known to have her there, and I can do all this and, for the sake of the complete thought of Callie Hotbabe, can act as a lummox, socially.

Courage must be gathered here, or feigned, at least so that I can behave in a way endearing enough to have my answers and not part our ways in disgust, though a quick end that would make. The reveling in this idea, twisted as I am about it, does make for some relief from the blasé feelings that stem from a lack of communication, and it is for this reason that I actually hope against a swift end.

It is now the first day to attempt any furthering of this idea, as opposed to only writing on the bittersweet melancholy. I open these passages to try to bolster myself with courage, because there is nothing I need really fear here. The inspiration of the simplicity of this ordeal should quell my unease, and the confidence that I have enough of a friendly relationship with this busy, young woman that I can get away with all of this. As much as I want to say that many who are more foolish than I, and many who are wiser would act on this with little to no thought or difficulty, the multitude of words that I have already written on this subject shows that I will constantly think and agonize over the ordeal until it is finished. There are many fables and heroes that I can draw strength from now; many lifestyles and credos that I can use to rally my mind into action, and the wonderfully terrible fact that looms above me is that no matter how bravely or clumsily I attempt these matters, Callie Hotbabe may be beyond my reach in another’s grasp. An easy solution with an easy conclusion, and I can finish this thought in as many words, but that is what eats away my conviction in the idea.

I cannot say how I feel about the matter of fate; that if she and I are destined to be, then the only thing standing in my way is my self, and she’ll run to me openly if I express my interest. I do hold hope that the stars align in accordance with the lucky ley-line of my palm, or any other supernatural boost that I can wile away from the cosmos in this endeavor, especially to make a great account of the tale of Callie Hotbabe.

The lingering negative thought that steals back into my brain now is the concern over our differences. But even then, two rational people can discuss that at leisure in a pleasurable setting before any deeper relationship need develop, so this issue is settled, even though the ghostly remains of it haunt my steps into action. Conversely, my desire to even discuss personal matters with her should act as a bastion, for now; supporting me to make that possibility an actuality by staving off the creeping thoughts that do not matter.

My arrogant ego suffers a bit here, because while I can go over the scenario(es) several times, I am incapable of predicting how the conversation will go, and this frustrates me. The approach I use will have to be a light one, since I cannot foresee that humor, authority, or any other pre-covered stratagem will be effective against the way she will respond. Unfamiliarity, both with the individual and with communicating is my foil, and I am loathe to admit that it adds a twinge of fear, as I cannot be as prepared as I would like.

Now, March 22nd of the same year of weekends, with a slight prayer to the Heavens, I returned to Kroger’s, my only pretense for hanging around in the produce section a bag of spinach to bolster my iron levels. I made my way to the right wing of the store, casting my eyes in every direction for any chance sighting of Callie, in case I meet her in any area she would not be expected to be. My nervously excited footsteps turned the corner to the section; I wheeled, single-mindedly, towards the bagged lettuce area, scanning the horizon for any lucky sighting of my real intent, and as I neared the citrus bins, I spied her coming out of the dark red double doors that have barred me from her numerous weekends before.

These doors were the barrier that separated her and I on several occasions, and I became very familiar with them. It so happens that they are bordered by the dried fruit and nut shelves of the produce department, so I spent a few Friday and Saturday afternoons contemplating granola bar contents for various recipes while really staring into the small, opaque-ish rectangles for a chanced glance at her. I was rewarded with locked eyes and an exchanged smile several times for my “puppy waiting at the gate” act; an act I grew tired of, since I could not bid her to leave the rooms and come say hello. I never worked the courage to have an associate send for her, even as an easily recognizable face by now.

Today, none of that mattered, when I began my quick, bee-lined approach to her and said “look at you here, with nowhere to escape to.” She countered with an implication that she was chained to the store forever and the whole weight of that, along with some other problems were draining her dry.

Her posture was odd; she kept her hands partly inside the front pockets of her sweatshirt, and pushed outward, a move I knew to hide the size of her growing belly, since it really only called attention to it. After some wonderfully delightful and depressing small talk, I did get her to admit to being pregnant, and I had my question of her marital status answered. Not married, per se, but with another, though from what I do know of Callie Hotbabe, her proud, busy woman status, this child was not planned. I cannot guess at the means to that end, nor is it any of my business, but what a surprising end to my pursuit of this fair lady.

It does, do some degree, explain some of the “radiated positively” I wrote about above when we met and spoke in January, but I wonder how I could have missed the size of the belly, especially if she’s planning on delivering before or in May; a fact I gleaned when I asked about the progress of her tattoos.

The cosmic joke is that the slight prayer I made was for Callie to be out of the preparation area she resides in during her work hours, available for talking, the courage mention phone numbers, and to this prayer I began rehearsing my lines for any available scenario I might use to an advantage. During the trip to the store, I lamented the fact that I left my phone behind, still unused to carrying it around, and so I was practicing this contingency, too. Of all the possibilities I covered, none included pregnancy, and I was shocked. I had a lot of question, but none that I could ask, so I did what I could to help soothe her, since it was clear from our conversation that she was down.

Through it all, though, she made no mention of the father, though she did point out a male coworker who was hosting a “tattoo party in April.” I do not know what to make of that, as he could have been the father, along with any number of other faceless millions. We parted ways hurriedly, but we did enjoy our time talking slowly, and I wish her favorable fortune in the endeavors that childbirth/rearing will bring. I cannot say what the future will hold for she and I, but I do know that if it is female companionship I seek, my process must begin anew, and if it is the telling of a complete idea as an exercise to develop complete ideas that I seek, then the first, albeit lengthily procrastinated, step has been made.

With a new mixed torrent of emotions I can, hopefully, draw inspired words from, I will have to see what the next feature will be, and look for any strength that can be gained from its completion, as well.

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