the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
substantiating, more than a bliss-fix
for she who is in need of substantiating evidence i’ll purport the following: i am confident enough to look in the mirror almost every morning and smile; my wiles have been described as charming, sentimental philter, amorous sleight of hand; i can be whimsical upon command and wanton with suggestion.
and albeit looks count, as they physiologically connect sentimental minds to our rogue and impatient libidos, i’d rather substantiate the former before the latter, for experience tells me that heart and soul matter more than anything that a temporary bliss-fix can do for me or you.
besides, i’m attracted to the unconventionally attractive anyway, and have a penchant for eccentric mavens of creativity, wordsmiths not afraid to mispel or cast an epistolary spell that leads to jaunts into chimerical danger and ribald adventure.
i’ll add, if only for bemusement, that i like to wear wax wings, i rarely the do the “right” thing, and i’ve been burned enough to know love hurts, but also that the heliotropic thrill is well worth the occasional peril and residual gloss of a golden hue.
moreover, i am not new, nor am i old, i am often hot, rarely cold.
i’m also apt to employ words like adept, astute, agile and keen, rather than belittling eloquence so that masses might glean what i’m saying. and granted although this smug plug for not communicating en masse may appear quite crass and supercilious, i’m willing to risk seeming haughty before compromising these saucy standards.
oh, but of course i can run with the rest of them too, reveling and rallying in the thick of popular ballyhoo and fawning idolization; cursing as crude as a drunk teenage sailor misdemeaning during fleet week. and yet, with sleek composure, retain a varnish as distinguished as the sheen shining off the wingtips of a custom-fitting tailor on saville row. for i know how to pretend to be whatever the occasion or company would have me be.
oh, and i do hope you realize that i am only frolicking, philandering with words, just having phun!, with these makeshift blurbs and a run toward pomp and circumstantial disclosure —merely a sideshow to divert the chaff which is apt to assess by trite means, leaving those few who intuit more by the gleaming—knowing that the meaning beneath the glimmering is more meaningful than the usual riff-raff and lackluster “facts” people relay to satisfy the fray that prey upon them.
for really, i am a rather simple man, i do what i do, and that is as much as i can. i rarely dally, and perhaps i should, for truly i could afford the periodical pleasure of spontaneous languor—ah, if only i were less disciplined, so that i might linger more often in the roseate calm of earth’s midday revolution away from our star, to stray far and away from assiduous application and lofty aspiration toward idle play, to calmly ride upon the crest of spume which the water resumes once the halcyon of night decides to nest; to languidly test my so-called easy disposition and indolently delight in the serenity of Spring’s song of twilight blue, a siren’s chant to awaken Summer.
so, dear inquisitor, you are now privy to a few of the little cues that substantiate my life, that confer to make me more substantial than any financial, fiduciary, or actuarial gathering of statistics might otherwise assess me to be: 5.10, 10”, 10e; 30-33; 15 ¾-34; 166; 36, and not exactly young anymore; melanin-enhanced—cranially advanced; and constitutionally strong, with a hyperactive libido to boot.
and my greatest weakness…is my weak heart, prone to be lovesick all too often it stops and starts and sputters—and agilely plays the part of the sanguine and forlorn fool who seemingly was born to endure the cruel and grueling test of love.
the art of living the list