man: oh, have to be, do, and hurry someplace soon.
“Fuck that shit, man,” another voice from somewhere inside says. “Relax, kick back, take it easy. You still have time. You were just relaxing, communing, and now you are going to spoil it all to run back and hurry-up to slow down, so try and enjoy yourself in this life now!” Being busy, taking care of business, appointments to meet, promises to keep, people to see, time slots and commitments, responsibilities. Ho hum.
What’s that over there? I think it’s a human being, lying on a blanket way across the meadow on the other slope. There is still a rather pleasant sun, a late-afternoon atmosphere that makes you not want to leave just yet.
I think I see a woman, yes, with her top off — really? She is lying down and reading a book. I must still be dreaming. I don’t know if she is aware of me. I can’t disappear, and besides, my male radar is beginning to take notice, wondering what this feline creature looks like. Why am I interested when I have my girlfriend Anna to see in a couple of hours? Well, despite my better nature I find myself getting up, picking up my backpack and wandering over, casually, not running, with my heartbeat four times normal and saliva dripping out of my mouth, but the magnetic male impulse to gawk a little closer has kicked in. This is Austria: They allow this here, no big thing.
I am moving a little faster. I see a fraulein of about twenty five, thin, with light brown hair, completely engrossed in some reading material. She doesn’t notice me, or pretends not to notice me, as I move closer and closer.
I’m within a few feet of her. This is the real thing. I notice her breasts are lying flat, a little spread-out, and are rather small but perfect, with dark-brownish nipples just starting to poke out, as if to say come on over and suck them, you handsome guy: I’m inviting you. I am a bit shocked at my thoughts, but not surprised, having spent many years in the male domain, in search of the female species, alluring and seductive, and not often going anywhere.
Boy, I would give anything to just lie down there and carry out that very thought, with no conversation. I feel a stirring in my loins — not just a stirring, a rising. I am getting a rise on, and it is filling the not-very-allowable space in my jeans, but not enough just yet to spoil any awaiting introduction or casual “come on” line. I look down at her short but shapely legs and her V line. No, maybe I will sublimate and just look a little closer.
She rolls over now and glances up at me coming towards her. Actually, I’m right next to her now, looking straight down as her breasts hang down, ever so cutely, and shake a little. I think she is a little surprised, and the ground now hides most of her front side as she shifts a little to get comfortable on the ground. Her back is tanned, and she has these little blue short-shorts on. She is gorgeous, with dark brown hair in a flip, an alluring smile, a cute turned-up nose, and a sexy, luscious mouth. Her cute little ass is tight, perfect.
She neither gives me a come-on-over nor a nasty look. I decide to smile and pretend I am not excited and was really only on a walk when I accidentally stumbled upon this spring nymphet lying in the grass. I nod hello and ask what she is reading. She says that it’s something by Dostoevsky, but that she can’t really get into it. I see that the book is half-open, and maybe she is on page 560 or so. I say, “That’s pretty heavy stuff. I could never spend the time it takes to read all those pages.” I continue, “That’s what I say, but then I find myself caught up in the story, and I can’t put it down,” She replies with something else similarly muddled.
She seems friendly, unassuming, not self-conscious at all, rather proud, as she should be. She now turns over again, facing me, so I can see all of her breasts, now with the firm, lush nipples coming out a little further towards me. They look like little cherries, ready to eat. At least I project that she is showing them to me, but she automatically begins to read again, as if to say, “Gee, I’d like to talk, but I have these hundreds of pages to read and now that you’ve inspected me or we’ve had our accidentally-on purpose meeting and you are aroused, let’s leave it at that. I like to play innocent, and besides, my man is coming here soon to meet me.” The latter thought quickly dissipates as I hear myself saying, “Well, have a nice day, life . . .” “Yeah, you too,” she retorts, flicking a leaf which has just fallen on her from between her little peaks. She seems to stare at my arousal and gives me an alluring smile, staring dreamily into my eyes.
I saunter off, giving a few quick glances back, as the woman of my dreams disappears to a now-forgotten meadow. She was quite attractive and had a cute nose and pretty brown eyes, but she was probably taken, and now I can get some relief and calm down and save all this for later when my friend comes over. Oh, I have to go by one of the Heurigens/vineyard-restaurants, and buy some good local wine on the way home.
Boy, is my face flushed. I should have gone back and flirted, found out who she was, taken a risk, gone for it. That’s good, Jessie. Beat yourself up. This life is made of female conquests and getting off, and the endless macho quest. No it wasn’t macho, just innocent and natural. I wasn’t looking for her. Maybe it’s a missed opportunity. “You will never know”, I hear myself say. She was on my path, in my sphere of nature, in my horizon line, my panorama of beingness. “The missed opportunities”, the same voice says, hounding me. Or maybe it was a lucky thing that nothing else happened. She is a book worm, probably bitchy, the usual man’s grievance package about the typical woman.
15.
MEINE MISCHPOKE
UND DRINNEN . . . UND
Harris has been married all those years. He pretends to be happy in his million dollar plus American house in the suburbs of the well to do, no problems with life circumstances. All the good schools for the kids and playing the American capitalist game that I couldn’t and wouldn’t. All this leads to stability and disappointment. Making it, whatever that is. The good life, whatever that is.
Success! He had married his high school sweetheart, and now the three kids, dog and cat live happily ever after. Besides, I think he really missed the sixties. What a shame. He couldn’t take it on the road. Stability has its costs. The Wandering Jew takes risks and goes with the flow, takes it easy living on the edge, daring, and being scared, and living in a fantasy world, or so it seems to "Them," those others leading that apparent other life, which you have little to do with, except for the customs of shared family to put up with. That is so far away now, and the birds I hear sing not in German, either. It’s the universal language, as are the sounds of the wind, the walking shoes on terra firma, or the sound of a motorcycle off in the distance.
It’s those sub-personalities, I hear myself say. They really bug me. I don’t know which Jesse is talking, and when. Is it adult Jesse, or little child, or inner child, or one of the many emotional, melancholic Jesses’, yakking at the other one and having an inner battle, a conflict of interest? Just whose interest, I can’t say. Roberto Assagioli looked at all of this. He wanted to help us understand ourselves better, and so it’s another way to map-out these sub-personalities. Those creatures that seem to take so much of our attention and control us, and just show us who is in control. Would we be happier in an institution where all these crowds of people are inside us, talking and trying to get our attention, having their day, acting out and feeling OK? Being categorized as this phobia or that neurosis or that paranoia, that dysfunctional #513A of the latest DSM book of charms and diagnoses?
This man, this Jesse, doesn’t like to be categorized, and spends all his time rebelling and fighting authority figures galore, ready for a fight or a flight, a fling perhaps, nothing enduring or permanent, god-forbid. This man is too afraid of the dark, of heights, of forgetting, of getting too close, to really love: either himself or others.
Is this too confessional? Sound like anyone you know? Is this a secret diary of the mind, a road map to planet X,
