TINDER: For magical women

Yesterday the world ended.  It was only 11:30 AM.

I will admit that when you are an unemployed single writer living alone, the end of the world has the potential to happen at least once a day, if only to have something happen.  That said, if you’re going to allow the world to end daily, you should probably do it in the afternoon or at least late evening because the whole Morning Apocalypse thing means being drunk by 4 PM and that can really fuck up your day.

Someone called me.  Someone close to me.  And we had a tearful conversation about something complicated.  It ended abruptly for understandable demands on their time.  I went for a run. I rolled over in the grass and I cried wonderfully beside a pile of goose shit and an old man with a ring on his pinky who was feeding said shitting geese.

Something about Mississauga in the near distance and the shadows of the benches lined up by the water, something about the place in Toronto I love the most being somewhere I actually live near now made me feel a little magical all of a sudden, I felt a haloed creature might be following me, or maybe I am the haloed creature, I felt good despite the end of the world or at least the end of the world for this one relationship for a while, this one very important relationship to me.  I felt awfully alone but then, I felt knowing.

This is what I know:  I can fix things. I can make things.  I have the brain of a woman who can literally come up with anything, anything interesting at all times.  I’m really good at building imaginings into What’s Real.  That’s what a writer does.

I can make a person and pretend to be her three hours a day, craft a life for her, a history for her, speak to strangers who Like her in odd Direct Message chats as if she is real, as if she is really real.  I only do it three hours a day but I could totally live like this person if I wanted to. I don’t want to.  I won’t.  The point is, I can make any kind of life happen.  I finally feel my creativity.  Problematically, it might be what’s at the center of my daily demolitions of the world.

I’ve had many friends who eventually “need space” from me.  I can only guess that it’s because there are apparent limits to the love people can have for my creative impulsiveness.  With creative magic comes the consequence of Fetish and Novelty and it hurts when people enjoy that end of me without really wanting to deal with the part of me that fucks up all the time, the part of me that gets in trouble because I follow my gut and my heart.  I try to be really present with people which sometimes, which always means, saying and doing the wrong thing.

People don’t want to deal with the wrong thing.  They want to collect my name as a Friendship, boast about how close we are and then yell at me when the illogical patterns of my character suddenly don’t work for them.   They want to beam when they get to be near me and cry when I get too close.

This is what happens when you’re a magical person:  Meet a person, they’ve heard of you somehow, they spend a magical evening with you, you take them everywhere even if that’s only one room somewhere where no one else can go (like home), and you drink because you love to drink with people because the only time you can relate to anyone is when there are no inhibitions.  This is the kind of evening that no one else can hear about because the things that happen make no sense, you’re breaking all the rules and even the lights, the fog from the lights, the bugs surrounding the lights know that when This Night ends it will end with a real ending.

The following day is just another day for you.  But, the person wrestles with the fascination of having been far away from themselves.  They go back to their friends, they go back to their lives.  It happens again in a month and maybe again in another month, whenever they’re bored.  You’re their vice.  They appear and you excite their normalcy.  But, they regret you the next day and you’re never fully integrated into what they would call Life.  Soon the evenings confuse things for them.  It’s too much, you’re too much.  They disappear.  You’re left alone.  Now, alone with your magic, all you do is write (or whatever it is you do).  All you do is fictionalize your impulses.  Because, sharing them in reality has led to a desertion that can only be fixed by the invention of non-existent beings.

I’ve cycled through a lot of people.   This cycle is most likely the reason I’ve never been in love.  Yesterday, drunk since 4 PM, waiting for a possible reconciliation from the earlier phone call, sitting and still waiting at 8 PM, having had one nap and the opportunity to stare at my favourite book for comfort that never came, I went on Tinder.

I have never been on Tinder.  I have been on OKCupid once for three hours until the guy I was messaging told me he was “sort of married”. I became annoyed by my generation’s impulse towards Polyamory which, if it works for you, great, but I’ve only ever been screwed out of real relationships by it, therefore the app’s concentration of polyamorous individuals threw me off and I quit.  I quit after three hours.

I went on Tinder because I need to meet new people.  I want to meet a lot of new people and, ever since learning that I can create myself into an online presence that exudes beauty I stopped being intimidated by Tinder’s reputation for superficiality.  I used to think I would never survive on an app whose success rate is based on Looking Good but since creating Kara I realized I can look as good as anyone else and I made a profile.

That was last night.  Tonight I have a date with a very good looking man.  I don’t know if it will go well because he is very good looking and I don’t know if I am and we met on an app and it might end in an icky feeling but, I did it.  I’m doing it.  I’m going out, I’m creating an evening based on a person who I really am and the creative impulse for the evening came from a deep sadness, a hopelessness, a scene between me and the grass and a man with a pinky ring and some very short-breathed weeps.

I invented this.  I made this up.  I made up the date.  Magically.

It might not seem that way to you because there are millions of people on Tinder and they do this daily and it’s easy and it’s normal and it’s really not an invention of mine.  But, the thing about creative invention is, it has nothing to do with Something New.  It has everything to do with Something I Did.  I will be the one on this date, not the millions of people on Tinder. I have to make it a real evening.

I’ve thought about deserting my magic tonight.  I don’t want to create a novel experience for someone I hardly know just so they can get overwhelmed and leave me in three weeks.  I might not even want to spend a drink with this guy.  I should just meet him and see what happens. I can do that.  I can do that with a dozen guys a month if I want to, I’m sure.  I have to be honest, I like being a magical weirdo.  I want to find the person who wants everyone they know to meet their magical weirdo friend.  Why is that hard?  Are the demands of reality so strong that we can’t give in to the things that don’t make sense more often?  Why are we complicating every action with the imagined layers of living when THAT is what is imagined:  Living is what is imagined.   At least for so many of us.

Our social egos are based in theory, based in what we want for ourselves, what we’ve heard is ethical, what we think our parents want us to do, where we’ve come from, what we know.  Actual Living is not like that.  Actual living is moment by moment living. It IS magic, it doesn’t make sense.  Can’t we just let things not make sense?

It doesn’t make sense that I’m having a drink with a stranger, great.  It doesn’t make sense that Kara gets a video of a penis instantly messaged to her, great.  It doesn’t make sense that I can even put on a wig and be a different person but I do it.  Nothing makes sense.  Do it anyways.  Make things.  Otherwise, what, we’re just swimming in layers of complexity that we made up and we’re making each other feel bad by judging our actions and positions. These positions make no sense.  Friend, companion, date, wife, whatever it is, the perception of Being That Thing To You puts restrictions on the magic, on life and sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes that means commitment and love and life but if you’re making the choice to craft those restrictions for yourself, then you have to live by them.  You cannot peek out once in a while for my magic.

I am going to have a magical night with a man I don’t know with a new found confidence and awareness: I am crafting the woman I am.

To the men who have used me for magical evenings: I hope you’ve found what you’re looking for.  And that the rules stick.  And that the complications have tired.  And that you sleep well at night in a place that makes sense to you.  I mean that.  It doesn’t feel good to be left without warning or hint or note or obvious reason.  It will never feel good to be ghosted out after a month of what feels like true closeness.  Maybe part of maturing is understanding that everyone has selfish needs and instincts and survival isn’t just an excuse for the pursuits of self, it’s a true path for humans.  If it took care of You to leave me, I’m glad for you.  To be honest, though, you’re all idiots.

Tonight I date, tomorrow I wake, in the meantime I have to live a day.  Everything is a creation.  To live any other way is to rob yourself of freedom.  Just walk the dog and breathe the air and listen to Selena Gomez for research and laugh at the dandelions who happened to avoid poison this year.  Soon someone will enjoy me.  For more than just an evening.  But if it is only one evening: I can accept the nonsense of that now too.

 

This blog is updated daily, detailing my transformation into a fictional character who is being crafted for a larger theatrical project.  If you like it, please share to social media, follow the blog and come back soon

You can read Kara’s blog at http://www.okkarablog.wordpress.com

or follow her on Instagram @karakarrara

Advertisements