Criticism, Amidst Connubial & Other Types of Bliss
The joys of married life
In fairness, criticism, I know, it’s just part of life. I get that. But bear with me… Nobody, except maybe the worst kind of masochist, enjoys constant criticism, never-ending comments about all the myriad ways he could/can/should improve himself.
But most married guys whether they will admit it or not know exactly what I’m talking about.
It’s like women believe once they marry us, that it’s their duty to make us better.
I know that there are men, Sleeping With the Enemy and Burning Bed types of psychos, etc. who constantly criticize/control/beat their wives. Guys who nag and whine and bitch about little shit that they should just leave alone. I know these jerks exist because I watch episodes of Snapped on the cable Murder-Stations too.
But these guys, are the exception, sub-normal idiots who generally get what they deserve.
Whereas, the normal path of women/wives to men/hubbies is for the women to feel an obligation to make us better, and the happier we men were with ourselves pre-marriage, the bigger job they feel they have before them.
Vacation in Vegas, another whole level of FUN, image from author’s personal pics
“Do you want me to trim the hairs on the back of your neck so they don’t show when you wear a tee-shirt?” She asks, five minutes after correcting me for calling the dog a ‘Chucklehead’ because it makes her sad for me to “call him names” before, during and after he’s spent a long, tough day licking his own asshole —
Rusty Shackleford, wonder-dog and trail guide, from author’s personal pics
but I digress.
The hairs on my neck? Heaven help my ass if I answer, “Funny, it’s like yer a fuckin’ mind-reader, how’d you know that as we’re out here taking this fucking dog on a fucking walk (that, btw, I don’t even want to BE on),
Rusty and Patti, on a walk “I don’t even wanna be on...” image from author’s personal pics
that I’d be thinking about/worrying about overwhelmed with anxiety and ruminations about the hairs on the back of my neck (and let’s just call that what it is, the hairs on my back!) sticking up over the collar of my tee-shirt?”
But of course, the guy can’t say that, nor can he admit that her asking sets him to thinking, about: ‘I’m not even allowed to tell you, while we sit having lunch, that you’ve got a glob of mayo on yer face about ¾’s of an inch to the left side of her mouth…. no, the left side of YOUR mouth… no, the LEFT, yer other LEFT! There you go! Ever hear of a fuckin’ napkin?’
Nope. Not gonna say it. Barely even able to lift myself up off the ground enough to fuckin’ think it.
“I don’t mean to criticize,” she says, “I have to be so careful… I try to pick my spots…”
In other words, I’m one lucky guy in that so far on this walk it’s only been these two little, helpful hints she’s touched upon…
‘How many more are there?’ you wonder. But you just keep plodding along and you shut-the-fuck-up!
Dream this for me, okay? Dream that somewhere is a man dreaming about walking down a sidewalk with you- holding your hand noticing the way sparrows chatter and this man is utterly happy and unconcerned with anything, anyplace, or anyone else.
Extended Lock-up: Spokane
Connubial bliss can be an illusive matter...
Several times recently, I’ve walked up to Patti while she’s concentrating, accidentally startling her, and she’s pretty much screamed in shock. In none of these moments have I wanted to surprise her or tried to or even considered that my approach might be a problem. Just a moment ago this happened again as she was vacuuming a mess the dog made on the white Berber carpet just outside my office. AHHHH!” she yelled, scaring me as much as I scared her, and then, she looked at me like I was Ted Bundy, loaded down with knives and zip-ties. I’m back in my office now, Just me and the dog. We’re in “the hole.” Isolated, in Segregated Detention Waiting for a crew from Extended Lock-up — Spokane” to show-up so we can tell our stories.
There may not be much more meaning to time, eternity, life, etc. than this singular moment: I glance up, your eyes lock onto mine — that’s it.
Happy Birthday Patti...
73 years old and still a hottie...27 years together this May. I’m a lucky man!
Happy b-day Patti. I love you.
I use the excuse of helping you combat a strand of your hair, raising my hand up to your face and touching you so softly that I’ll never forget: Your skin, your eyes, the way I imagine your hand rising to touch mine in return.
A Focus on Elevated Ideas
Striving constantly for greatness and purity of mind and intention...never mind...
It’s so easy for me, whether by force of habit or just standard perversion or being a man or some biological imperative, to lie in bed at 1 or 2 or 4 in the morning thinking about sex. Sometimes after meditating (sort of) on the 8-fold noble path, I try and force my focus onto elevated thoughts: courage, kindness greatness of spirit, art, philosophy, love, rejection of tyranny whether on a large historic scale or a small personal one. Usually, though I slip back, pretty quickly into sexual fantasies, like a computer moving to an old, familiar default position. Practice makes perfect… or, turns out, not so much.She is filled with soft and hard places — too many bad things, lonely things
groping losses in the name of love rubbed raw in a poor substitute of being beloved and losing even that, over and over again so that the hard spots rage and flash but the soft parts wait for me.
If I begin at her eyes so absolutely lovely so perfect I might start sobbing —
And behind them the sharpness and the wisdom of loss, fear, of ever loving
someone else more than she loves herself — She is this force — The storm and the calm and the light of day and all the moon’s cycles. Her shadow, as she walks is enough to make me sigh — so imagine my problem with looking into her eyes.
We stand next to her car and our fearful motionless dance goes on until
at the last second I reach across to her face and brush a blond hair away
her skin so soft, smooth, against my skin for just that moment and then we both flee from it and from each other, Have we just made love? Or
started a war? Or saved each other’s lives? And/Or something else Altogether?
Her baby is marching around the green carpet sighing and laughing to herself as mom laughs too then reaches over and squeezes my leg once,
Twice a third time? Gestures that I refuse to let myself believe that they might actually mean what I desperately wish they could mean.
I Ask This...
A question that seems especially on point for Feb 14...(I may be wrong)...
I ask this, in all sincerity; does anyone else think/feel that only through either fucking or making love or some combination of both, can you truly know someone in that special naked way of knowing and being known? Asking for a friend… Nah, that’s a lie… asking for myself, because even at 73 years of age I’m not sure of the answer.You are so gorgeous and sometimes when you laugh you purse your lips so that lipstick won’t smear onto your teeth where I would kiss and lick it all away forever happily or die trying.
This is a scary world to be alone in — so we’ve found each other and for this moment at least we feel something like warm breath next to each other’s ears almost a soft passion, almost a gentle panting — much more than words and even though we are still alone and scared it’s not quite so bad.
A Love Poem for Patti on Valentine’s day
Love Turned
And we were standing in place like snow like leaves — and the winds carried us into sweeping swirls — my feet were sheets of newsprint skittering over warm pavement our hearts spring wheat, green and tender rooted, somehow, to something and waving wildly like fools beautiful perfect fools — petals of roses in a hot June breeze.We are alone on a bed. We’ve just made love and you feel a flicker of shame (or maybe I do) — One of us starts to reach down to cover our bodies with a sheet only it’s summer, warm, and we don’t cover up- instead you tuck your head onto my chest and my arm wraps around you holding you protecting you. Then your smooth leg drapes over mine and I notice freckles on your knee, and I smile and kiss you again and we both sigh — And we sleep awhile wrapped up in one another.
Getting It
Love comes in all sizes and shapes and sometimes it takes awhile to understand this...
I’m watching three large women, two older And one young one, All dressed in grey sweat suits, Walk toward me, Past me. Their asses, in the rearview mirror Look solid as oak doors, Solid as brass sculptures Of lion’s heads and gargoyles. They are walking around a park, A quarter mile in circumference, Trying to run away from themselves? Two of the three, an old one and the young one, Are smoking cigarettes as they walk. Quite a fitness program. I don’t get it? But that’s nothing new. I never get that kind of shit about women. Truth is, I hope someday some woman turns to me In some quiet, public place And explains in words gentle As a mama’s whisper The whole story of womanhood; How it is, why it is, Exactly what it means. And when I finally understand, When I cry, “Shit! All right! Yes, yes, I’ve got it.” She’ll smile, staring straight into my eyes, And pump a .38 slug into my forehead. I’ll die a happy man.
In this hour she sleeps softly, her baby sleeping next to her — and somewhere, not far away, a man writes about loving her, celebrates her smile, eyes, breath, the freckles above her breasts — And God watches them both and God doesn’t know whether to laugh or weep at what He’s done this time.
Her lips...
A soft, painful, exploration of her lips...and yer Lips!!
Lips that lie Love...Smile...Kiss...Lips that, It Doesn’t Matter What they do...because her lips yer lips...
Will she wake up thinking about being held gently, hard by me? Does she k now that the very last thoughts I have each night and every morning are a bout her face, her heart, the sound of her laughter?
Photo by João Ferrão on Unsplash
