6 Domesticity

Why would anyone not put their milk in the fridge? Is this a male thing: do men, as a rule, not put their milk back in the fridge, whence clearly it came from? It bothers me.

Maxl drinks green milk, semi-skimmed. I don’t see the point of anything semi, let alone semi-skimmed; the green cap is not for me. I abhor the idea of milk that is skimmed of its fat of its taste of its goodness of its milky nature, as I abhor decaffeinated coffee, artificial sweetener and non-alcoholic beer. They are, as far as I’m concerned, abominations. They are, if not abominations, man-made oxymora. They are the kind of contradiction in terms that I, at the risk of sounding judgmental, find wholly unnecessary. And necessarily unholy…

Maxl pours over his muesli green milk, it actually looks green, the colour is all wrong. It looks wrong it feels wrong it sounds wrong. The word ‘semi’ sounds wrong, as does the word ‘skimmed’.

Maxl pours green milk over his muesli and then leaves the milk out of the fridge for the rest of the day. Although it bothers me, I don’t strictly mind, as it’s his milk, and being green it probably won’t go off as it’s basically watery cow juice that has had all the goodness skimmed off it. This milk is no cheese in the making. Also, I’m hardly someone who uses his kitchen in a sanctified manner. I am no chef. Things lying or standing about my kitchen are generally not in my way.

I don’t mind, but it bothers me, and I wonder what makes a man leave his milk out of the fridge: is it an innate desire, a need to mark your territory with some whitish liquid, signalling your existence?

I’ve never known a woman to leave out her milk; women know how precious milk is, they don’t care for milk that turns yellow and rancid. Men don’t mind yellow and rancid, it’s part of their being.

Maxl leaves his milk out and sometimes, too, his salami. I read nothing into this, I just note it and wonder: what is it that makes men leave their milk out, and, occasionally, their salami. That is all. That, and the fact that it bothers me. That fact bothers me in turn, as I like to think of myself as the kind of person who would not be bothered by anything near so trivial.

Does it mess with my sense of territory after all? Or with my sense of order? Or my sense of propriety? It may be the fact alone that it’s green milk, not real milk, that he leaves out of my fridge: I probably deep down feel that my kitchen is being sullied by the presence of fake, pretend milk. Perhaps, even though rationally I know it has absolutely no meaning, it deep down offends me. The way it offends me, deep down, when I find in my fridge bottles of Coca-Cola left by house guests, although they invariably turn out to be useful, as Coke is excellent for clearing the drain.

I resolve to leave things be as they are and not trouble too much about matters so insignificant such as these. At least, I think, I don’t have to put up with this kind of behaviour for any length of time and I certainly don’t have to own it: we are not in a relationship, we are not cohabiters, we are not even flatmates: he is a guest, and the law of hospitality stipulates that he can do with his milk—the top of which may be any colour of his choosing—whatever he likes, for as long as he likes, just as long as he doesn’t expect me to endorse or approve it. Which clearly he doesn’t: he’s completely oblivious to absolutely any of this, and he doesn’t even notice if I put his milk back where I think—inadequate and green though it be—it belongs: in the fridge.

{Vernation}

i am

these days it appears

attractive to young men

attracted too, of course, but that’s not news

and not newsworthy: young men are

attractive

by definition

even people who aren’t generally attracted to young men can see this 

and even if they can’t see it, they are still

attracted to them

irrespective

their gender their inclination their

orientation

their emotion their wisdom their inhibition, their assessment of any given

situation:

whether they want to or not and believe that they are or that they aren’t

people

all people

are

always

attracted to

young men

(except those few who are not and they are few and are not and are therefore the

exception.)

the rule

is confirmed

what’s new is that more than before

more than ever

as far as i ever can tell

(and often i can’t)

or recall (and i could if i would)

men half my age or just slightly older or occasionally just slightly younger still too

come to me, seek me out

not i them

of the men i have met, spoken to, spent time and been with lately

most, though not all, have been those 

that are half my age or slightly older or on occasion slightly younger even

and who have come to me, sought me out

not i them

this flatters me, of course, maybe honours me, but more than that does it

fascinate me

because i don’t do anything to attract them, not 

consciously: if anything i do the opposite

i grow a beard 

i wear a jacket left me by a friend more than ten years ago, which was vintage then

my shoes are worn out and my jeans

though skinny

threadbare

i don’t go to the gym i don’t wear my lenses i don’t 

cultivate 

a young voice or vocabulary

yet 

young men

more than they ever have done before, even when

especially

when i was their age

come to me, seek me out

i don’t go after them. on a park bench at a party in a bar

even online

i mind my own business more or less

i say hello maybe, or

greet a smile with a smile

but that’s it

i don’t do anything more; maybe

that’s what it is

maybe that’s what makes me

suddenly, perplexingly

attractive 

to young men: it may be that

in the past, when i was 

their age

i was just trying too hard to be

something, someone, some other 

person than the one that they saw

because they saw through me then to me now

and now

what they see is what they get

and if they are friendly and kind and intelligent too

(apart from being attractive: being young, they’re always

obviously

attractive)

i see no reason

why they shouldn’t get

what they see if

what they see is

what they desire

is life not give and take after all and are we not in it

to share of ourselves

as we lose ourselves in each other?

 

my summer of love leaves me warm hearted light headed and simple of soul

there is 

so much 

delight

in being

human

{Felines}

I really like cats.

Maybe that’s why I really like men who behave a little like cats: who come when they feel like getting some strokes, or some food, or just like sitting with you on the sofa, and then for no apparent reason decide they’ve had enough now and seek out their own space and leave you alone to get on with the day.

It’s the opposite of what most people like from their men: most people seem to like their men to behave mostly like dogs.

Dogs, with one or two notable exceptions—one a woolly creature I once met in the outskirts of Munich and the other one Harry, a cocker spaniel living with a family of best friends of mine in the country, who has sadly since been run over by a car—disorientate and bemuse me: their potential for aggression on the one hand and their pathetic neediness on the other disturb me. (Harry, I should point out, seemed to have no potential for aggression. His neediness though was quite pathetic, in a forgivable, canine way.)

Cats don’t disturb me. They often make me laugh out loud, and in the main they strike me as abysmally stupid, but when you put an intelligent brain on a cat, say that of a mathematician for example, or a young lifestyle editor, or a social practitioner, then suddenly you have the most perfect pet.

That then begs the question, somewhat, of course: am I primarily after a partner, or am I really after a pet?…


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