my secret lover

I am sorry but I am re-posting this for freshness, this is still a work in progress. Cheers.

I have recently discovered, to my surprise, that I hold an odd affinity for scruffy bookish weirdos with a penchant for snobbery. I am strangely drawn to those peculiar men who have replaced their televisions for an array of obscure books authored by obscure men who write about obscure bookish types who look down on much of conventional society.

In my fantasy, I should probably call it that, this man is quite an inoffensive, introvert with a job like librarian or dog walker or Information Technology Guru, he is worn around the edges and bears a striking resemblance to Charles Manson or the Unibomber, –bordering on lining his apartment walls with tin-foil type–He possess Jeffrey Dahmer eyes and eats cheese sandwiches alone on some grassy knoll feeding the pigeons. Undoubtedly, he is intellectually superior to most.

In reality he probably holds an upstanding position in the community, plays in a jazz band or he’s a math rock drummer or is independently wealthy due to some freak accident befallen by an aging great grandparent. He goes home to some random enclave of Chicago’s city where his books are stacked on top of one another like man-sized towers about to collapse. Nietzche, Bukowski, Pynchon, Heideger, Einstein, Plato, Greenspan (yes, Greenspan Kevin), Rollins, Emmerson, Cummings, Baldwin, Neruda, Hawking. He has an ancient record player and puts on some Leonard Cohen while sipping a snifter of brandy before night fall. Stacks of the economist and The Wall Street Journal line his bathroom floor.

He plays the guitar or maybe even an antique upright bass because he has an edge that’s what his tattoos signify at least. Pictures of his travels in uneven procession are flanked on his fireplace mantle, Tokyo, Nepal, Thailand and the history of his passed loves peeking behind those. He has a wind up grandfather clock and a weathered globe unhinged from its axis by a mid-sized bong bleeding with schwag and soot. There are rolling papers on his bedside table on top of a stack of old atlases. He is tall and lanky with dark hair that tends to cover his eyes most of the time. He reaches for a lamp chain with long elegant fingers and clean fingernails and the room is filled with soft yellow light. Somewhere a cat mews for someone’s attention and then there is silence, Leonard Cohen becomes Tom Waites as the player drops another vinyl disc onto a spinning turntable that scratches and whirs. He sits in a ragged hand me down leather airline chair and thumbs through a small mound of postcards from ex-lovers and ex-pats from Australia or Vietnam. His phone never rings because he hasn’t got one. He eats his dinner from a tin and sets the leftovers on the floor by his feet. He finds trivial knowledge and conversations trite, so when out with friends he stays quiet hoping someone brought their chess set. He is dark and brooding, but strangely smiles a great deal.

Oh the things that run through his head at times like these.

He holds most in bitter judgment but secretly wishes he could just be understood. He has friends but they are the sort who come around when they want to talk politics or philosophy or feel superior in the mere presence of him. His passions lie somewhere between architecture and Jazz and his loves have left a long time ago. he meters the room , searching for an attractive equal but rarely finds her and becomes disillusioned in his pursuit…

Still working on this one, but oddly, i find him incredibly attractive. Go figure.

Jeff Buckley- painfully beautiful.

~ by Timbre on April 14, 2008.