08 II 2003 - 23:12 - iuventutis

It's depressing, really, how body-conscious I've become these days, how sensitive I am to how I think others see me.

I don't remember this awkwardness coming over me, and I don't remember the moment when, suddenly, I got bad at reassuring myself. Did it happen the day I hit adolescence? It doesn't seem likely -- but then, feeling good about myself also seems as if it's some rare event, these days, to be prized until that last drop of good feeling is gone.

Sometimes I wonder what other people see -- why those who know me only through conversation continue to think me intelligent if I can't get three words out without stumbling headlong into embarrassingly periphrastic constructions designed to disguise (and which of course therefore highlight) the fact that what I was about to say a moment ago has slipped my mind, or that I have forgotten a word. Either periphrasis or cryptic ellipsis -- take your pick, I'm facile in both (although my tendency these days is to choose the slightly more intelligible dangers of periphrasis).

Years ago (and I've mentioned it before), someone exclaimed of me, 'He's just like a miniature version of a real man!' If that wasn't the birthing of all of my self-image problems, it certainly gave rise to no small number -- the worst of it is that I don't think she even thought about what she was saying. I think she meant well, which just makes it all the harder -- because is that what people see when they look at me? Is my entire appearance based on what I am not, will there always be that voice to tell me how much I lack of a real masculinity? (I'll never know the answer, so I must either stop asking the question or resign myself to being bothered by it for at least ten more years, if not longer.)

I think what may compound this is my belief that 'I wouldn't ask me out on a date, therefore, no one would.' I think very few people are attracted to themselves in that way -- and come on, we're talking about someone (me) who is still often surprised that his friends still like him. I mean, this is some sort of insecurity, obviously -- but it's not as if I can ignore it, because, hello, I'm living in my head and there's no escape. It doesn't make it any easier that the people I'm attracted to -- break for a moment.

You know how there are those people who can sum up their Type in a few words? 'Yeah, I'm attracted to bassoon players and garbagemen, especially if they wear those ribbed white V-neck sweaters from J. Crew.' (All right, as a type that's implausible, but I'm sure you know someone who can rattle off something like that.) I'm not one of those people. I have baffled myself, my friends, and complete strangers (actually, no, but I wanted to have a third item in my list) with the rather random nature of my eros (yes, that is e-r-o-s, not a-g-a-p-e, you must mean my good twin if you're thinking of the latter), which just makes me wonder: if I can be attracted to them, then why not to myself? (Because it would be damned narcissistic, that's why.)

Why I am thinking about this now? I met [G]'s boyfriend tonight, and he, well. He was many of the things I'm not, and some of those things I on occasion wish I were (with me still?) -- seemed personable, casual in a way I've never mastered, easy in the way that most men are (and this because he was sprawled when I met him (to explain why this was so would require photographs of the restaurant, which is special and not a bad place to pick up a snack, if you're in the area. Will I tell you where and what it is? No.) For a fleeting moment, I wanted to be him, just to see what it would be like -- not to babble, not to trip over my own words, to be tall and to appear to be settled in my own body.

(I recalled my former fierce desire to be white, which desire I've never really explained to myself.)

The moment passed. I stared at [G], trying to take my mind off the familiar doubt rising in me, and succeeded, mostly. All of us talked about nothing much in particular, and the evening passed pleasantly. We walked to the concert together and laughed all the way down the street. Chance meetings with nice people can be lovely.

Tonight, Petrarch, translated to prose by Robert M. Durling. This is from his rime sparse and has number 187 --

When Alexander came to the famous tomb of the fierce Achilles, he sighing said: 'O fortunate one, who found so clear a trumpet, one who wrote such high things of you!'

But this pure and white dove, whose equal I think never lived in the world, she resounds very little in my frail style. Thus each one's destiny is fixed;

for she is worthy of Homer and Orpheus and of the shepherd whom Mantua still honors, worthy to have them always singing only of her,

but a deformed star and her fate, cruel only in this, have entrusted her to one who adores her lovely name but perhaps mars her praise when he speaks.

Giunto Alessandro a la famosa tomba
del fero Achille, sospirando disse:
'O fortunato che s� chiara tromba
trovasti et chi di te s� alto scrisse!'

Ma questa pura et candida colomba
a cui non so s'al mondo mai par visse
nel mio stil frale assai poco rimbomba.
Cos� son le sue sorti a ciascun fisse;

ch� d'Omero dignissima e d'Orfeo
o del pastor ch'ancor Mantova onora,
ch'andassen sempre lei sola cantando,

stella difforme et fato sol qui reo
commise a tal che 'l suo bel nome adora
ma forse scema sue lode parlando.