Broken

I'm broken. Tired, stressed and broken.

Ain't posted in an age due to new girl stress, work stress, finding new house stress, drinking waaaaay too much stress, smoking every cigarette I can get my hands on and generally fretting stress.

I can't do it anymore. Any of it.

Want to quit work, want to quit the girl, want to quit the drink and the cigarettes (obviously some of these things are not entirely a bad idea...) and most of all I really want to quit being the person that I've become.

How is it, and why is it that we end up being... sorry, that I end up being someone completely different than the person I know I am? This has been the hardest two years of my life and I would love to believe the adage of whatever don't kill ya makes you a ninja, but frankly, I'm not wearing cotton pajamas, kicking people in the face and killing pandas with my brain. Ninjas can do that you know...

I've talked myself into being with the girl, I think. I've certainly talked myself into doing the job producing and directing the tele show that I don't want to do but will pay rent and bills but is causing me to squeeze my metaphorical insides like a tube of toothpaste. I've been ignoring my friend who I adore and I really, really don't feel like having sex. Even with myself. Or another person. Which is unusual. I rather like sex. Especially with another person.

Being a rather selfish, yet giving person (I'm a complicated contradiction) I really don't know how to deal at the moment. I'd quite like to run away, but I don't trust anyone to look after my piano properly, and I'd probably only run as far as my local bar anyway. But I can't. I'm moving house on Sunday after shooting the first episode of the new show on Saturday and then editing it on Monday for a Wednesday on-air date.

I'm freeeeeeaking out.

I Need a Nap. Or a Fatal Beating.

We walked through the evening crowds, loving the faces, loving the laughter, loving the perfumes of skin and hair. Loving the feel of this woman on my arm. And yet I was alone, far too alone with my love of this town and my growing feelings and fears of this woman.

Sooner or later fate puts us together with all the people, one by one. It shows us what we could, what we could not, what we should and should not, let ourselves become. Sooner or later we meet the drunkard, the wasted, the betrayer, the ruthless mind and the hate filled heart. But fate, bless it, loads the dice, because I always find myself pitying almost all these people. And it's almost impossible to despise someone you honestly pity, almost as much as it's impossible to shun someone you love.

Love is on my mind.

Sex is also on my mind.

Freud said that we're motivated by the drive for sex. Another well respected gentleman disagreed, Dr Adler said we're motivated by the drive for power. Yet another, Dr Victor Frankle, he said sex and power were important drives, but when you can't get either one - no sex, and no power - there's still something else that keeps driving us. The drive for meaning.

I believe that in my life the drive for sex, the drive for power, the drive for meaning... they're all part and parcel of the same motivation. I just wish I knew what that was. I want to quantify it and boil it down and grab it in two hands and keep it in an open box to study it.

Things are slightly off centre in a very new relationship, and if it's off centre this soon... well...

I think too much.

Friday Night Lights

Friday night. Ms MJ picks me up for date number two.

CUT TO

Saturday night. Taxi drops me back at my place after dark.

FADE TO BLACK

REVEAL...

Her good friends hold a party. Many people. None I know. Doesn't bother me, that situation never has. Vodka is poured, conversations exchanged, laughter. There's a kiss. She cuts me a line of something. I inhale. There's dancing and more vodka and more laughter and another secret, quiet, yet shattering kiss. The sun is coming up. Another line is put in front of me. I inhale. Music changes, from rhythmic dance to James Brown telling the world he's a sex machine. More vodka, more laughter, more conversations, someone takes out a camera. An embrace on the deck, a whispered letter to each other. The sun is fully up. Sunglasses go on. The music goes on.

An invitation... come with me back to mine... I go. We sleep. Her wrapped in me. We wake. We laugh. There's a golden number of kisses. Conversation flows easily. I leave for my own home. As I leave she speaks. I want to see you again very badly. Those words of hers are mine forever now. I can hear them.

It's easy. All I have to do is close my eyes.

Close

I've been internet dating. The woman I have stopped seeing was an internet. It worked. First dates are easy. Second dates, not so much. Third dates more difficult still. Finding my woman who knows? Good fucking luck.

Last night I hitched up my special trousers and sprayed the special scent around my general direction and went on a first date with a woman that we'll call Ms MJ. I had arranged to meet Ms MJ last week before I had my whispered promise moment with a woman that I never thought I'd see again.

The whispered promise girl hasn't called.

So I went and dated.

We shook hands and stared at each other. Open faced and button nosed she was. Guileless and unlined but with a weary shadow across her eyes. It was as if she had sealed shut some doors on herself, and stood guard over them. There was pride. I admire that in a woman. It should never, ever be underestimated. But there was maybe a little sadness too. It's taken me a long time to realise that everyone is just as tired, worried, proud and sad as you or me. Mostly me. The heartbreaking joy I put into sowing emotions that might bloom is something that gives me the strength to face the fear of love and the desparate hunger of loneliness.

So, under the indigo sky of Auckland I dated. Voices were raised in laughter and excitment. Drinks were drained. Drinks were ordered. 'Same again? Sure... your round?' There's a kind of inspiration that's not much more than doing the right thing in the right way, but it only happens when I empty my heart of ambition, purpose and plan. It only works when I give myself completely to the moment, golden and relentless. So I kissed her. Properly. A good kiss is like a promise. I can tell in that first kiss if I want to dream of future nights with this woman.

It was a very good kiss.

And now I'm conflicted. The whispered promise has not called. I've had four emails today with the lovely past woman. I've just had a text from Ms MJ.

Conflicted. And yet content. I don't know how that works, but somehow, for me, it does. But I have no idea what to do. None.