A Vast Collection - An essay about relationships with humans vs. cats vs. algorithms, and a poem about divorce.
Ahh divorce poems. Iāve got a few.
But two divorces, too large alimonies, and many years later, itās nice to actually feel fond of both of my ex-wives.
It took some work to get here, but the old cliche is really true: forgiveness is not a gift you give someone else, itās a gift you give yourself. I genuinely enjoy, and enjoy the fact that I enjoy, seeing my exes from time to time.
This poem, like all of my divorce poems, was written soon after a divorce. And so itās raw and heartbroken in its way, but I donāt find it bitter. More simply crestfallen.
I think the thing that most amazes me about me, has been my willingness to try again, to have my heart broken, or perhaps more precisely, to co-conspire with someone else to mutually break each otherās and our own hearts, and then, after a suitable period of licking my wounds, to charge into the fray once more.
That takes balls, or faith, or utmost insanity, or addiction, or some combination of some or all of the above.
Thereās no doubt that Iāve been āin love with loveā. Maybe Iām a love addict? I wouldnāt be surprised. In fact, I wouldnāt be surprised if everyone suffering from some form of anxious attachment is burdened with a sex, or love, or sex and love addiction.
Addiction. Sometimes hard to define. If I adore good lovemaking and fucking, but have lived for prolonged periods without it, and without substitutes like pornography, so am I still some sort of sex addict?
Nope. Pretty sure Iām not, because itās not like Iām forcing myself to abstain during these periods of celibacy, using raw will power, the way a junkie or alcoholic might feel required to do whilst fighting their addiction.
No, at these times there is no effort because there is no one in my life who is a romantic partner, no one for whom I feel that kind of love.
Sex, as glorious as it can be, as much of a pull itās exerted upon me, has always required an emotional connection. So, celibacy has always been a natural outgrowth of an emotional reality, and has feltā¦ necessary.
As a man of 66, itās kind of amazing to me that Iāve never had a one night stand, but I understand it. In some way, Iām not built like the other men I know, almost all of whom have had at least a single one night stand - some probably sixty, or maybe somethings like two hundred of āem. Nothing would surprise me with some of these men, almost all of whom are almost immediately into a new bed, or relationship (depending on their temperament) the minute the previous assignation or partnership has ended.
Iām not that sort. Probably a combination of introversion and shyness, coupled with self-sufficiency, and this desire for real connection, which doesnāt grow on trees, keeps me off that hamster wheel. I know a lot of men who seem incapable of conceiving of being alone, living alone, being single and celibate for any length of time. I feel bad for them, because for them, sex and, for some, companionship, seem existential.
For me, when Iāve been single, Iāve often felt lonely, sometimes horny, and quite often like a āloserā - like thereās something wrong with me. And yet I have spent quite literally years not pursuing anyone, wrapped up in writing and music and healing myself, and doing healing work with my clients.
Somehow, even though I do get lonely, and I have craved touch, and sex, and just, I dunno - a cup of coffee with a girlfriend early in the morning watching the sun riseā¦ I havenāt craved it all enough to get out there and find someone.
Around the time this poem was written in 2003, I was feeling the need to try, to get out there. So I started experimenting with online dating. And oh, boy, I met more women, and had more dates, and more sexual partners (Iād only had three by that time at the age of 43), over the course of the next few years than Iād had in the rest of my life put together. At the time, sites like match.com were the ideal vehicle for an introverted guy who wanted to meet a potential partner but hated bars, clubs, discos, and yoga studios (qipong is my thing - yoga has never grabbed me).
In recent years, online dating has become a hellscape, an automat of photos to reflexively swipe at and software algorithms designed to keep us on the platform, endlessly searching for, rather than finding, true love.
Bumble has rolled out an AI assistant which women will now reveal their deepest secrets to, as it promises to get them āthe oneā, the perfect Disney man for the perfect Disney life.
If you think such ideas are quaint, read or reread that odious tome of narcissistic tripe, Eat, Pray, Love, because this is precisely the ending that book presents to all of the modern, feminist, progressive, independent women who *adore *this book.
Eat, Pray, Love offers up to women a man who thinks the woman is the center of his world, his universe. Everything revolves around her, and he will do anything to please his princess. Itās not offering a mature form of love. Itās offering Daddy; always present, always supporting, always providing, always a rock, never needing support. Not human.
Disney prince love is Daddy love. Itās not brain and bone and balls and womb and heart and soul and weāre in this together love.
Men have their versions of Disney too. We have often bought into the stunningly beautiful princess/goddess who will somehow ācompleteā us (or up our status/self-image), nurture and take care of us, but also choose us, thereby letting us āwinā them, conquer them, etc. ad nauseum.
One or the other or both of these protagonists are often blazing narcissists to boot.
Itās enough to make you fear your potential partners, and your own judgment.
And so Bumble, and others are offering an AI concierge cum matchmaker to confide in, in order to find the impossible: the perfect man.
Studies have noted this, and Iāve seen it myself online on dating sites: women have these *incredible *lists of prerequisites for men. Not, not all of women, but a lot. It sometimes has made me laugh out loud and shake my head: tall (sometimes specifying a minimum height to the inch!), āsuccessfulā (sometimes specifying a minimum yearly income!), broad shouldered, deep voiced, tats, no tats, blue eyes only, brown eyes only, athletic, single, emotionally available but masculine, hard but soft, a good listener/best friend/confidant/emotional tampon.
Men? Not so much. Menās basic prerequisites: Are you reasonably attractive? Are you nice? OK, letās go on a date.
Studies have shown that the vast majority of women, regardless of how attractive they may or may not be, will only swipe right on the photographs of the top 10% of men rated most attractive in focus group studies of thousands and thousands of images.
Vast multitudes of these women seem to believe that they all deserve a wealthy male model for a boyfriend. Men tend to swipe at about the top 40-60% of images of women they encounter on these sites. They seem, on average, to have more realistic expectations.
So while women have been opining about the male āpredatory gazeā and āobjectificationā, theyāve had their own versions of these.
And, if the studies are true, their āshoppers gazeā is much, much more picky, and much more disconnected from reality, and their objectification, far more detailed.
And this leads to that impossible man, and to phrases like āthree sixesā or ā3/6sā. Have you ever heard of this? WTF does 3/6s mean? That the man must have a six-figure income, be over 6 feet tall, and must have a penis longer than six inches. Oh, thereās even a fourth, for those most discerning of women: a six pack.
Apparently such men are exceedingly rare, which amuses me, since, minus the six pack, I was once such a man, before the 6 figure income departed. I never knew how hot commodity I was, wrapped up as I was instead in a bundle of negative self-talk, insecurities, and searing self-consciousness.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that lack of confidence kept me honest (and un-slutty) in a way.
I cannot complain. Iāve loved, made luscious love, married, helped make two wonderful kids, lost my heart, lost my shirt, and lost my sanity over it all, more than once. Itās been a wild ride.
And Iād do almost all of it over again, albeit hopefully somewhat more adroitly with the help of hindsight.
Whether online dating, or out in the real world, I have been like those men, with two basic questions, to which I added a third and a fourth: Are you reasonably attractive? Are you nice? Are you intelligent? and are you creative? (I may be wrong, but I am not sure I could have a fulfilling relationship with a forensic accountant, just sayinā).
Contrary to what some people wish to believe, attraction is not a choice - its innate, visceral. You canāt manufacture it, and an intimate relationship without it isnāt much fun. Iāve tried it - because I was enormously attracted to a womanās brain and heart. But it was a constant struggle to stay intimate under those circumstances - I even tried hypnosis - and ultimately it became too much of a burden for both of us; I knew how I felt, and so did she, and that hurt her, and I couldnāt help how I felt, and that made me feel terribly guilty, superficial, and ashamed.
And so I learned - a baseline physical attraction was necessary for me - but no supermodels needed.
And are you nice? Ahh, hereās where Iāve failed! *Everyoneās nice when you first meet. *Everyoneās on their good behavior. Itās only when those little wounds, misunderstandings and disappointments start to accrue that the nastiness emerges.
For me, I gave up looking, especially online, because itās cleat that online dating is now a fucking slot machine, and people, especially women, are putting quarter after quarter into the machine, and slamming that lever reflexively, over and over. And even when they get a small jackpot - they go out on a date or two, maybe even have good lovinā - that larger jackpot, the perfect man, the āsomeday my prince will comeā man, lurks, and so they forego this small windfall and plow it all back into the algorithm, yelling āNEXT!ā.
Funny - I knew so many slutty men like that! Men whoād screw one woman after another, afraid of connection, afraid of commitment, and, glory of glories, the Bumbles of the world are recreating women in those menās image, and we are all the poorer for it.
But especially the women - because studies are showing that the endless pursuit, the endless ānextā, the desire to anonymously go to the next picture, and the next, and fantasize about the āprinceā in that picture, is becoming an end in and of itself! No more dating! More and more women are spending more time perusing the endless cavalcade of pictures, and messaging real men less, talking on the phone less, going out on dates rarely if ever.
Reality canāt compete.
And so āOnline Datingā is actually becoming a solitary pursuit, a solo addiction, like pornography.
And more and more men are finding the company of AI āgirlfriendsā and an AI ārelationshipsā to be ābetter than the real thingā too!
(BTW: all of this applies to homosexuals and lesbians and non-binary people too - but the endless language necessary to delineate this is too exhausting for me to contemplate - but everyoneās got their princes and princesses. As Dan Savage likes to say: āWe all objectify the people we want to fuck.ā)
Everyoneās retreating to their AI corners, one with the replacement princess/girlfriend (who is submissive when desired, perhaps a dominatrix at other times, hot as hell when sexting, but also somehow a āgood girlā, insanely beautiful (in photorealistic AI presentation), but also somehow modest, a warm, almost maternal confidant but also a sex-crazed vixen) - and the other with the snake oil salesman promising marital bliss with the perfect prince (who is at oneās beck and call but also wild, wicked and untameable, safe and reliable, but also dangerous, chivalrous yet also somehow the bad boy, but also the good father and provider, devastatingly sexy yet devotedly monogamous) and many more outright contradictions and impossibilities, somewhere over the rainbow.
Everyoneās* sharing all of their secrets, desires, fears, hopes, and dreams, with machines, either by submitting a laundry list for a man who cannot possibly exist, or āhaving a relationshipā (God/Goddess fucking help us!) with a simulacrum of a woman who* literally doesnāt exist!
Both are ārelatingā in one way or another to AI, and AI will do what AI does best - kiss these menās and womenās asses and affirm them, and in the process, the corporate overlords will be *given *the most personal information, *willingly *by these people! Everything from behavioral models to advertising techniques will come from this vast cornucopia of not mined but self-contributed, voluminously contributed, highly-personal data.
Their sexual orientation, sexual proclivities, secret shames, whether they like kink or not, their fantasies, their ethical and moral framework for what is and is not acceptable behavior - all will be gratefully given to these faceless piles of code masquerading as humans.
All of this will, almost unquestionably be used down the line to sell these people shit they donāt need - from Botox to self-actualization weekends to shiny sports cars, to breast and calf implants and straighter teeth.
I tell ya, I yearn for those days of crunchy, corny, grass fed, free-ranging humans, interacting on their own, in the wild.
Women foregoing the relationship for āPrince GPSā that offers them an easy path to the perfect prince - but which actually leads them into one empty cul-de-sac after another.
Men getting hooked on relationship Wegovy, a non-physical simulacra without form or feeling, that kills their cravings for a real living woman via a pale, substitute āgirlfriendā they can never touch or be touched by.
Neither these AI girlfriends, or the apocryphal princes Bumble offers will ever be touched, cradled, cried with, made love with. You will never share your childās first smile with them. or that post-lovemaking sweaty, satisfied sunrise.
I am glad this shit has no appeal to me, that I stare in revulsion at what weāre becoming, that Iām too old-fashioned and too smart to be gulled by some AI chick telling me how awesome I am.
I am *amazed *at the men (and some women) who are āin relationshipā with an AI ācompanionā. I am *amazed *at the women (and some men) engaged in endlessly spinning the Lazy Susan of pictures on those dating sites; endlessly, mechanically swiping at representations of humans that are in effect as two dimensional and non-existent as those AI companions - because the swiping has often totally replaced any real contact of any kind, and even if you met the guy, no way on earth he could ever live up to the idealized objectification fantasies.
The actual human being just does not, *cannot, *measure up to the fantasy.
And thatās caused many a divorce too, I reckon.
But for me, yeah, better to have loved and lost. And better to be alone, if thatās my Tao, my destiny.
Fuck off, AI motherfuckers.
And, God(dess) bless cats, dogs, frigginā goldfish, Iguanas, and other living things!
A VAST COLLECTION
Sometimes a heart would jump
Mine or yours or the catās
And Iād start awake
To find youād hadnāt even arrived yet
Sometimes Iād turn to you
Like at the beginning
To love you soft and slow and slow
To find you a figment or a memory
The shell of a lost-wax casting
Sprues of empty air like
Eyeless sockets
Or limbless penitents
Another dioramic tableau
Added to our museum of loss
As it chokes on its own oaken dust
Its cloudy vitrines well stocked with
A vast collection of broken promises
Each an artfully severed nerve
A bounced check in vellum binder
A ferrotyped measure of dissolution
Classified by kingdom and phylum
Need and demand
Imprecations curling in on themselves like
Snakes eating their own tails
The massive computing engine
Its chanting brass wheels
Floating on their ruby movements
Sustained by columns of rationale
The noise of its number crunching
Drowning out the inevitable result
Of its iterative insectoid calculus
Its grand formula for success
Foucaultās Pendulum
A glowering mass
Inching ever closer to terminus
With each encyclical whir
The halls resound with the gravity
Of crouching iron meteorites
Their fire sculpted voids
Singing of emptiness and cold light
Each wall plaque literately describes
The best empirical estimate
Or algorithmic conclusion
Of each predicted scenario
On Saturn youād weigh more
Than you lament
And even the big winds
Could not dislodge you
On the moon you could
Dance yourself off the surface
A whirling dervish of igneous dust
And Shaker ecstasy
On Mercury you could simultaneously
Melt burn and freeze
Half of you ablaze
The other half breaking like glass
Inside the planetarium the stars creep
Slowly āround Polaris
The fireflies practice their dance steps
And the birches shed another year
Whispers foretell of changing constellations
Re-emergence of comets
And other apocryphal dooms
Reconfigurations of dread and hope
I crane my neck waiting for a sign
A fiery re-entry sigil in nightās sky
A vagrant imprint on sheets
The ghost of a companion
(c) 2003 - Samuel Claiborne