Saturday, 3 October 2020

BLR cont (ch4&5)

BLACK LABEL RED (continued)

c2020 Ordo Octopia. All Rights Reserved


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4. Fools Journal


It was. 


It was past. It was the past. The matter has been settled, set aside at least for the subconscious to deal with in some future emergent development.


It was by coincidence they bumped into each other again.


He had been haunted for a week or two after the event, the time it takes to get over someone who has had an impact, knowing it takes much longer for trauma to heal and emotions to settle especially being empathic could sense her energy when she was feeling about him, and quite sure she felt the same. They had hugged in a passionate embrace and kissed for all of five maybe ten minutes, had shared time and a meal together.


It’s inevitable humans are going to think about other humans. Especially those with whom intense passionate scenes have been shared. 


A part of the setting aside process is recapitulation. The reliving of a memory to let go of it, this to free the energy up for the moment of immediacy. No more attachments to the past which is a fiction because it no longer exists.


The police called him obsessive. He is certain he is not. It’s another mean police trick, part of their interrogation technique to grind somebody down and make them feel worse about themselves hoping the pressure will cause the person to break and confess even to a crime they did not do simply to escape the torture. Which it is. Torture. These interrogation techniques are illegal according to the Geneva convention but nobody cares, they get away with it.


The first meeting was poetic. They both climbed a hill upon which a ruined castle, a broken tower the only remaining feature. She sat on a stone throne made of broken wall and he had kneeled at her feet, Templar to his queen. 


From there they had walked the length of an avenue of trees, chestnuts. It was romantic. She agreed to a second date which they arranged for a following week. A meal in a restaurant neither of them knew. 


She surprised him by phoning him the night before, drunk at a party she wanted to be rescued from asking him to give her a lift home. A damsel in distress, he white-knighted to her need for safety. A long drunken walk through urban wilderness full of drunk men was not a safe situation for a vulnerable woman. 


She invited him in for tea and explained the party was progressing toward a hot-tub party which was not her scene. Mixed couples and singles drunk and bathing together with amorous intent. 


She surprised him again by throwing herself at him physically. A part of him regretted not having taken her up on her offer “you can do whatever you want to me” instead of taking advantage he had been a gentleman and detached himself from her drunken behaviour and gone home. 


He weighed his own behaviour. A woman he had met only once and who was willing to have sex with random men was not someone he trusted to risk catching a sexual infection from. It was not him she wanted, it was a man shaped dildo. 


She had discarded him as a broken dildo because he had not taken advantage of her and had treated her instead like a lady. It spoke everything of her and nothing of him. He had done the right thing. 


When the police had arrested him from his front door because of allegations she had made and taken him to the station for interview, he figured she owed him an apology which he accepted he would never receive. 


This is the quality of women met from a dating app. He resigned himself to stop using dating apps. The experience had not gone well. The types of women using them were from his experience not the type of women he intended to share time with. He summarised with the single word: sociopathic. 


Would it have been any different had he had sex with her that night? He reconciled in all probability he would be in exactly the same situation as he is in today, plus carrying an std she had no intention of warning him about if she even knew she had it herself. Contacting her to explain that would become a nightmare after she had lied to the police to get him off her back. 


Meditating on her was depressing. He chose to manage his thoughts by remaining optimistic. This experience was a gateway passage to a higher dimension in which women treat men with the respect men like him have to offer women. The next one will be better. 


Sex or no sex, mutual respect is a foundation of a strong relationship. Probably she does not respect herself very strong which is why she behaves the way she does toward others. A key to understanding her psychology. A very common one. 


Musing on human psychology and the woman with whom a flash-in-the-pan brief fling which went nowhere, falling out of love at first sight on the basis of how she had disposed of him so callously, he bumped into her again. They bumped into each other. 


It was by coincidence they bumped into each other again. Perhaps it was a contrived coincidence. 


It was a book signing. They both shared a passion for the same favourite author who happened to live locally. She came up behind him in the queue and said “boo”, high in excitement of meeting her literary hero enough to approach her ex instead of hiding in disgrace at how atrociously she had behaved. She was alone. 


His lasting memory of her was the police claiming she had made a false allegation about him. She was the last person he hoped to encounter although he was aware the possibility she would also be at the signing. He had gone anyway, determined not to let her shadow overwhelm his life and his appreciation of a novelist he admired. His genuine interest, he was on book three of the series while she had been on book two. 


“Oh. Hi.” He said. 


The energy between them was magnetic. His heart leaped at seeing her despite his brain accelerating into flight mode.  


She was making out all friendly because public and a crowd. She approached to hug him. He stood his ground. She held his elbows and leaned her torso in toward him so he could smell her perfume, she wasn’t wearing perfume, she smelled of herself, pheromones. Her face leaned in and pressed against his, cheek to cheek. She was on tip-toe. 


“I’m... sorry.” She whispered. She stepped back and smiled. Their eyes told the truth, despite words, contexts, situations. 


“We were in love.” He said. He shrugged. “People do crazy things when they’re in love and feel rejected.” 


He had forgiven her. 


He turned his head around to check how the queue was progressing. His body followed automatic by itself. The famous author was watching and had heard their conversation through the person standing in the queue between them. Their eyes met, and smiled. The person between them was inconsequential to the story. 


She said his name. He turned half around and looked at her. 


“I owe you an explanation.” She said. 


An invite into her madness. An olive branch of peace. An offer of redressing imbalance. A confession of still wanting him in her life. Another chance at happiness. A fools journey. 


The pressure of the heroic adjudicators presence, their published author becoming the judge in their romance. How hard should he be on her, on himself? 


Abruptly the environment of the novel, a work of fiction, the authors predeliction, became of massive import in the unfolding of their relationship. How vengeful or forgiving, how daring or cautious, he should behave, was guided by the atmosphere of the book series which they were both reading. 


Should he go with the flow and do it in accordance with the ambience of the author who even this very second said “next”, or to become his own man measured by whatever creed he was living by, one would argue he was seeking by reading and meeting the writer face to face.


He had not intended to be standing with his back to the man at exactly the same moment of his audition. He spun on his heel, more dramatic an approach than he had intended. The woman behind him was spinning him, catalyst controlling his behaviour. As he recognised this, so too did the author who greeted him as a friend. 


Silently she sidled up beside him. 


“Ah.” Said the author. “Are you together?”


Direct and to the point but for what purpose? They both held as-yet unsigned copies of book four of the series, waiting for the writers scrawl to endorse them with personalised value. 


She smirked. He was not entirely sure how to answer. A relevant quote from the earlier novels would have been appropriately light and mirthful. His mind was excited and he had to accept that instead of disfunctionally rejecting her. At the same time he was still hurting from the police interview and hours in a cell, a long walk home in the rain, her punishment for his not having fucked her like an animal when he had a chance. When she had given him a chance. He edited his stream of conscipusness the way a writer edits their work. In respect of the pursuit of accuracy. 


“Aspirations to higher intentions.” He said by way of explanation. It was cryptic and intellectual. It was a lame explanation. 


“We might be.” She said, flirting with the author. 


“Lucky man.” He flirted back, making it obvious he found her attractive too. “I will sign both your books.” 


She patiently accepted her position in the social order by letting him go first as he had been before her in the queue. Despite this, she was owning his meeting with his literary hero, scrambling his mind and emotions by standing beside him and flirting with the guy. 


He took a deep breathe. 


“You both look like writers” Stated the author. 


“We are.” She said. 


“I find writers who write for writers to be a different breed of writer than writers who write for readers. I try to do both.” 


Black and white dynamics disguised as atypical advice and easily mistaken as inherent egotism. A clever flirtation. The author was quite taken with her enough to make it obvious he would happily take her home himself given a chance. She was making it obvious it was a possibility in her mind also. 


“You’re good at both. How do you manage the dynamic?” She asked. 


“In my experience we think with our head, heart, belly and groin. You have to get these things in check.” The author explained. 


Immediately the author turned back to the man. He had rejected her offer momentarily, necessarily to sign the book. 


“We have to satisfy them all.” She said. 


“You’re looking for satisfaction.” Replied the author. 


“Aren’t we all?” She nudged him sideways with her elbow. “That’s why I read your books.” She added. 


She was clearly having a good time. She had not stopped smiling since she had slinked up behind him in the queue. 


“Then you must be the person I am writing for.” He answered. 


A silence fell as the author scribbled into both their copies of his book, silence in which the word “writing” became re-imagined as the word “waiting”. A short queue behind them was growing impatient and bored. 


“I hope our paths cross again.” The author said as he handed her copy. 


“They tend to with her around.” He said as he received his copy.  





5. Revelations


“Coffee shop or wine bar?” He asked in the street outside the book store. They had both left at the same time and stopped to say goodbyes. 


“You assume I want to give you another chance.”


“You said you owe me an explanation.”


“I didn’t say I was going to give you one.”


“Actually you said I can do whatever I want with you.”


“That’s unfair. I was drunk.” 


“That’s exactly why I went home instead of.”


“Wine bar.”


“You assume I want to hear your explanation.”


“You assume I’m doing this for me.”


“Let’s stop making assumptions.”


“Good idea.”


“So what happened? Why did you lie to the police about me?”


“What?”


“I had to walk home in the rain. It was my karma for having given you a lift home that night. I did three hours in a cell it was my karma for three hours of your company. I was interrogated it was my karma for talking too much in the restaurant. I’m good with that. What’s your story?”


“What the fuck are you talking about, police cell? I never called the police.”


“That’s not what they said.”


“I don’t know anything about that. You’re bullshit.”


“You’re playing mind games again.” 


“No! I wanted to explain why I told you to leave me alone. I was over-reacting.” 


“You’re telling me. Over-reacting to what? I hadn’t done anything.”


“It’s something someone said. If a thing is too good to be true, it probably is. I really enjoyed your company and we seem so perfect for each other. I got frightened that it must be some sort of trick.”


“Yeah I can accept that’s possible. Why did you lie to the police and then deny it? Can you see how that’s a mind-fuck?” 


“So why did you invite me to a wine bar?”


“You said you wanted to explain yourself. I’m a good person, I’m giving you a chance to do that despite what you already did. I believe it’s important to be respectful. It is possible you’re innocent after all. Or at least justifiable.” 


“I never contacted the police. I don’t know what you’re on about. You’re playing mind-games with me. You’re lying about it.”


“I swear I’m not.”


“I swear I’m not.”


Their gaze met and a look of trust passed between them. 


“What the fuck?” 


“You think I put you through hell. It was my poor-me drama, I wanted you to stand up to me and tell me I was too good to let go of and force me to back down and accept me as your own.”


“It doesn’t work that way. You told me to not contact you again. If I had ignored that it would have been criminal because it would have been abusive.” 


“This is so fucked up.”


“If we had sex that night, would it have made a difference?”


“Yes! I want us to do it. That’s the whole point! That’s why we’re sitting here. Why I apologised and why I want to explain it to you.”


“It’s confusing. Because of the drama. Because of the alcohol. I need integrity. Integration. If it doesn’t make sense then it’s nonsense.”


“I get that. I said I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about the police getting involved though and that’s the truth.”


“That’s difficult to accept.”


“If that really did happen to you then I find it difficult to accept too. What happened?”


“They arrested me and said you had made an allegation about me which had no evidence. So they let me go because they couldn’t force me to make a statement agreeing that I was abusive you.”


“That’s incredible. You can sue the police for doing things like that it’s harassment.”


“It doesn’t work that way. At worst they’d deny having arrested me at all. At best, the possibility that I had been abusing you is weighed against they’re just doing their job. What I can’t add up is that you say you didn’t contact them at all. It looks as if you’re lying.”


“I get it. And because I was apologising to you for changing my mind, blowing hot and cold, it’s easy for you to believe I’m manipulating you.”


“Basically. Except the way you’re talking when we are face to face is so honest and open... I can’t get my head around it.”


“So you thought I had lied to the police about you and you still invited me to a wine bar?” 


“Yes.”


“Then I guess were both a little crazy. You must really like me or something.”


He shrugged. It was obvious. He didn’t have to say anything. 


“But why would the police do that?”


“Because you’re setting me up. You’re a believable actress. And you’re shameless.” 


“That’s a major trust issue you have going on there.”


“Is it surprising?”


“Will you give me a lift home?”


“You’ll invite me in and test me to see if we are going to have sex today.” 


“It’s possible. It might be the sort of sex we both need.” 


“It’s not worth the risk. The police have made their statement what they think of us even knowing each other. That’s even if you’re telling the truth about not having called them yourself. So don’t take this personally.” 


“Not like last time huh?” 


“I would never take advantage of you.” 


“I wanted it. Still do.”


“That’s my cue to leave. I’m sorry. Because I wanted it too. Still do.”


And he left her with a half full glass of wine in her hands. 


In a higher dimensional version of this same situation, one in which their focus had not been consumed by attempts to find an honest harmony, they had compared the personalised notes with which the author had signed their personal copies of the fourth book in his series.


To him, keep aspiring, signed blah


To the mysterious lady for whom I write, this is my number, signed blah 



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