Nihilism #2

Listen to this song, "Allison Johnson," one of my favorites from Portland band Richmond Fontaine's Post to Wire (2004) album, and its elegiac, boyish faith in an ultimate feminine companionship. This song, I think, is a perfect succinct statement of the romantic worldview:

Allison Johnson Allison Johnson

I won't let you down 

I'll find us a house on Wilson Street and
Our kids will play in the yard and at
Night the cottonwood trees they will
Sway to the music that we play 

Allison Johnson don't fade on me 

Our clothes lay intertwined
On the floor together and we could sleep all day
Stay in bed all day

This song shuffled on this morning as I sat at my PC preparing a post on Ukraine. And I was struck by the extent to which this romantic worldview governed my actions throughout my adult life -- this fiction of a final resting place of peace and bliss and contentment and repose that was not death but rather bedding down with a beloved female partner.

See, that is not going to happen. Nihilism is the acceptance that you can't sleep in bed all day, stay in bed all day with your lady, with your god, with your mommy, with whomever, with your clothes on the floor intertwined. Allison Johnson is a fiction, a projection of the boy's mind looking for nothingness but not knowing it. Realizing this, this is nihilism.

"Look At You Now, You're Crying"

For all my stout philosophizing about the neurotic nature of man-woman relations and my embrace of an ascetic bachelor lifestyle I would toss it all on the dung heap in a jiffy if the right woman crooked her finger at me.

There is such a woman. I pass her almost every day walking to and from work. She is a sprite, a faerie; probably late thirties, could be a little older or a little younger; dresses well -- hip -- without trying too hard. She works at Seattle University I imagine. I've said hello before, last summer I think. I can't say that she reciprocated fulsomely.

I've always been polite. But then a few months ago I felt slighted for some reason; I got the impression that she purposely averted her gaze, like I was an Untouchable, whenever we crossed paths. It could have been entirely imagined on my part, but I don't think it was. I think she was trying to get to work on time or trying to get home at the end of the day and she didn't want to have to deal with this asshole leering at her. So I decided to return the favor and give her a little taste of her own medicine. Whenever she approached on the sidewalk I would turn my head to the side or drop the bill of my Obama '08 baseball cap. She didn't like it. I sensed a little panic, confusion, concern on her part. I did this for about a week. I didn't do it because I was being petulant (but in the end what other explanation is there?); I did it because I was tired of her arrogance.

Soon I returned to my old polite self, smiling broadly, nodding politely; and she seemed happy, relieved, like she was glad things had returned to normal. Now we have a detente. Sometimes she'll have a bad morning and ignore me. I don't reply in kind; I ignore being ignored. And things snap right back the next day or day after with smiles and nods (never any salutations).

Tonight in a light rain near the Eisiminger Fitness Center on 14th Avenue we passed each other and she gave me a really sweet smile. And it made me feel wonderful; that rather than being an Untermensch or Untouchable I was a fully-formed human being worthy of merit and with a soul.

On tonight's run "Look At You Now, You're Crying" by Comet Gain shuffled on my iPod. Our attachment to romantic love dies hard, if ever.