Aggravation (143) Anxiety (94) April Fool (1) Bitchiness (65) Bobby (84) BP (7) Burning in Hell (36) Bush (66) Calme au Blanc (13) Catholic Church (33) Charlotte Cushman (11) Cobalt Blue (26) Confusion (11) Crime (22) Daily Life (145) Dangling Conversations (46) Deep Thoughts (47) Depravity (29) Depression (44) Divertissement (15) Embarrassing Moments (17) Family (44) Friends (110) Frozen (15) Fun (60) Gay (67) Gertrude Stein and a Companion (19) Glass Menagerie (34) Good Things (72) Government (58) Gustav (16) Hate (20) Holidays (36) Hope (37) Hugging the Shoulder (6) Humid City (9) Humor (155) Hurricanes (3) Internets (8) Jesus (5) Justice (6) Katrina (119) Latrine (15) Life in the Quarter (353) Louisiana (12) Mardi Gras (85) Mark Rylance (1) Movie Stars (35) Music (22) Nagin (20) New Orleans (126) News (28) Nighthawks (29) NOLA Partee (1) Obits (12) Our-Leaders-in-Their-Wisdom (111) Outlaw City (126) Personal (405) Photography (532) Pity Post (11) Politics (79) R I P (12) Religion (20) Retirement (11) Righteous Shit (24) Sadness (37) Saints (19) Search-Engine Crap (20) Sex (34) Sick Humor (61) Silly Stuff (151) Southern Decadence (22) Striking Words (23) Stupid Shit (217) Take Me Out (41) Tattoos (18) Tennessee Williams (65) The End (1) The Human Comedy (15) Theatre (509) Thinking Blogger Award (1) Thrill Me (37) Treme (7) Valhalla (42) War (28) Weekly Photo Challenge (41) Weird Shit (9)
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Confessions of an Anhedoniac
For me, a bath is a squat, a scrub, and a swab; and a quick shower's better.
I have also heard of people who like nothing better than to experience the rush of chemicals flooding their brains as they settle down to expensive meals of rare delicacies, savoring each precious morsel for its flavors, juices, and seasonings. Wine - no, wines go well with this scenario, too.
I'm okay with whatever Mrs. Kim from across the street has decided to cook for today's lunch special.
I don't believe this next thing for a minute, but my friends tell me that it's true, that people exist who can create in life romantic, sensual fantasies never conceived by any of history's great imaginists.
I'm pretty well satisfied with a quick ... well, never mind.
I don't do pleasure.
I have nothing against those of you who do. It's just not a part of my makeup. Don't get me wrong, I'm not asking for your pity or concern. It's not like I miss it, pleasure. You can't miss something you've never had or ever longed for. I don't believe I'm sad or miserable in this life I have.
I am detached.
But I have my moments, things I do enjoy, like looking and listening; although I don't believe my looking or my listening are necessarily like yours. When I am looking at or listening to something, really looking or listening, I disappear. The only thing there is is the thing that I am looking at or listening to, and that is all there is until it's done with me and goes away and sets me back in the room or on the park bench where I was to begin with.
I wonder. What would you call that?