Control

Looking out the window, I see middle-aged folks taking walks or riding bicycles through my wooded neighborhood and wonder how many of them are the ones who live in the crowded neighborhoods nearby where there is no place for a tree to grow and they can practically shake hands with the neighbor next door by reaching out to each other through their windows. Later this afternoon, I'll take a walk myself, enjoying the woods that an acquaintance, Margaret Anne, owns with her children and inherited from her father. She owns or owned 16,000 acres that have mostly been turned into subdivisions (housing estates), my wooded neighborhood being one of the first developed by her father, and the untamed wooded area behind my house being one of the last exceptions.

I have enjoyed my life and reached all my goals. Now I get to sit back and observe others' lives, at least until I get bored with this mode of living, such as it is.

I have more tales of my wild days I could write about but I think I've written enough for now. I usually write such stories because of or to impress a Muse. I have no more muses in my life.

Some guys I've known have had mistresses while being married, enjoying sexual liaisons in clandestine meetings which heightened the thrill of sex for them and their partners (many who were also married). They encouraged me to do the same, trying to get me to be part of their secret boys' club of sexual trysts. Some told me about the mileage limits on their marriage licenses, with 300 or 500 miles being the extent of their license agreement. Some simply said that out-of-town meant freedom, no matter the distance from home. Others felt like the hometown pond was big enough for fishing and there was plenty to lure into bed because they knew that women of separate subcultures rarely mingle or simply that some women want to keep secrets, too, and vice versa. Some guys even hoped to get caught as an easy out from their current marriage.

I've always felt that if I kept the home fire burning strong enough, then I could satisfy my sexual desires with one woman and avoid the risk of sexual disease.

We humans are alike, no matter whether we're male or female. We are organic, living creatures, tuned to reproduce.

At 47 years of age, my time to reproduce soon draws to a close. My sperm, if it's not already damaged, is close to being too spoiled for producing good offspring. Thus, even if my sexual desires were not sated at home, the sole purpose of sexual pleasure has just about disappeared.

I am my body, which includes my thoughts. I am my thoughts, which include my body. I have no offspring but I have a mate. I have a mate who has no offspring.

I can't sexually satisfy any other woman but my wife. It's an interesting thought. It's not a matter of will or won't. It's just that I can't. And I'm getting concerned.

I mean, think about it. I don't like organized religion, where most of those gather who follow the act of monogamy that simulates my mindset (or at least, they profess to believe and follow that act). I get tired of hanging out with guys who brag about their sexual conquests. I get tired of guys who brag about their boy toys. I like flirting with women but get tired of not being able to take the conversation beyond words. I'm running out of interesting things to do and people to hang out with. Television is boring. Movies are getting old because I've seen almost every plot device ever thought up. I have no interest in helping other people reach their goals because I'm concerned about but not willing to investigate (only imagine) the impact their goals have on my future self.

People meet me and want me to participate in their lives and I'm just too polite to say no - even worse, my politeness is part the reason some people want me in their lives. Because I don't fucking care about them, my inaction implies to them that I do care about them.

I have to remind myself again that these are just words. I am not these words and these words are not me. I won't solve any problems by typing words. It's more than that.

For instance, I watched an adult female human staring at me with either a real or made-up look of desire in her eyes while she playfully stroked a highlighter pen in and out of her mouth. The previous sentence is just a string of words but describes what I think I saw. The first sentence in this paragraph tells me that I am barely keeping my sexual desires under control. I told myself in the moment of the experience of the first sentence that she was performing that action in order to make fun of me. It was the only way I could justify my existence in that moment and I made myself sick by twisting my thoughts around that way. The woman saw the look of sickness on my face and hid hers, no matter how she thought she understand what I was thinking (she had no idea that I had been seduced by a teacher when I was a teenager and how it shocked my teenage view of roles humans perform, which told me that roles (job titles, well-defined levels of responsibility (e.g., parents), etc.) have no meaning and thus life is essentially meaningless or only relatively meaningful, at best, which I have been slowly coming to grips with ever since).

I have only myself to call me myself. No one else is responsible for me. My parents long ago ended their obligation to set me up to succeed. I have been an adult longer than I was a child but it's the upbringing and thoughts of my childhood that determine in large part who I am.

I am running out of places to live. I am running out of places to hide. Other people's desires and games are theirs, not mine. Either I participate in human society and enjoy the fruits of my desires or I don't. I'm tired of playing the game with myself that I don't enjoy playing the games that people play, in order to keep myself under control.

I enjoy being human. In fact, I celebrate humanity because it's the only game in town and I know how to succeed in it. I've succeeded in every game I've chosen to play. I've made up my own games. Homo sapiens is a fucked-up species and I want to join the members of that species in fucking up their chance of survival as much as they do, but in my own terms and at my own pace. Our species is destined to destroy the environment in which it lives - it always has and always will. There are just too many of us blind to the consequences of our actions. There are even those who pretend to care about taking care of the environment because they know they can take advantage of those who really care by making and selling the caring ones some "environmentally-friendly" product that destroyed the environment in its production - how cool is that?

Again, these are just words. Words have no meaning. I typed these words while looking out the window of a domicile. Whether these words reflect the reality of living on this planet is meaningless. They do not live. I live. You live. The space between us lives. I have no clue what your life is all about. I'm barely keeping mine under control. Maybe I'll figure something out while taking a walk because these words don't mean anything to me except to keep my thoughts off of my thoughts about thinking and keep me from thinking too much. Thinking = inaction, a type of control. At least walking/hiking is some kind of action while I'm thinking, free of games, and thank goodness one where no one directly influences me and I directly influence no one else.