62Tavares, United States
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My self-summary
I’m a Meyers-Briggs INFP and an aspie. If you know what both of those mean then you already know, at least vaguely, what you are getting into if you answer this. I am not for every taste and season. That’s why I say I am narrow-casting here. I am not the kind of guy who can pick up people in bars. Firstly, I hate bars. Secondly, I have never mastered the process of negotiation that allows two strangers to “hook up” quickly and efficiently. I'm a trained rhetorician and have spent my life being told that I have a rare gift for expressing myself powerfully and persuasively with words. "Wrote a song for everyone, wrote a song for truth, wrote a song for everyone, but I could not even talk to you". I doubt if John Calhoun Fogarty originally meant these words as a complaint about having a gift for self-expression that disappears like Superman's powers upon exposure to Kryptonite in the presence of an achingly attractive stranger that one would give up a Grammy or a Noble prize to know better, but this interpretation feels right to me.

I tend to get to know people slowly and, sometimes, painfully. I think I may have become a writer long ago because I never found anyone that I could pour my heart out to as easily as I could utter/outer/other what was quarantined inside my skull onto a page that could somehow hear every secret and keep them all. Most people who frequent bars get bored and wander off long before I manage to break the ice. I typically miss any openings they give me and talk about all the wrong things when I speak at all. I am probably doing this right now. If so, thank you for your patience and kindness if you are still reading and, if you are not, I just want you to know that I really can't help it and that it is neurotypical bigots like you who have made my life, if not hell, at least very similar to a long head-cold that will not go away. I'd never say this if you were still reading. Unlike you smog bastards, I try not to hurt even critters I can relate to only about as well as a barnacle can to some truck-stop waitress who thinks that a guy who puts maple syrup in his coffee is kinky enough to make the carnal knowledge thereof qualify as both anthropological research and a righteous hoot.

I love talking philosophy, literature or psychology but have absolutely no talent for the kind of small talk which is made not to convey or receive information but to establish rapport. I find it hard to establish rapport by saying nothing. I prefer conversations with content and become quickly annoyed with empty chatter designed to fill an awkward silence. The problem is that those silences are not awkward for me. I can ride in total silence for an hour when taking long trips by car with a companion that I know well and feel comfortable with. I’ve been told that I’m not a good person to take on road trips for this reason.

I disappear inside my mind for long periods even when there is someone I care about in the same room. If this would feel like rejection to you, I am not what you are looking for. I’ve spent my life being told how smart I was by people who found me boring. This is especially painful for me when the person telling me how smart I am is someone I might like to make a part of my life. I’m probably the only guy in the history of Mensa to join because I thought it would be a great place to meet people to cuddle with.

This did not work out well but I learned something important from the attempt; I’m part of a sub-population within the general population who are significantly over-represented in the upper 2% of the IQ distribution. After I’d been around for a while, I could divide the Mensa regulars up into two categories, “extreme high normal” and “one of us” without having much doubt at all where each person belonged. I did not get along any better with the “extreme high normals” than with the garden variety normals that I had already spent my life boring and being bored by.

I am a mutant, a hopeful monster who only functions well in one narrow niche both socially and professionally. My species is not yet defined and I may be a one-time fluke with no future and no other half waiting, with baited breath and an aching need vast enough to beggar the imagination, for their ship to run aground or at least get close enough to make swimming out a realistic option. This makes searching for true love or even close friendships a long-shot gamble similar to wandering around in some discount clothing barn on the off chance of finding a quality control nightmare with three sleeves.

So here I am at 62, an avid reader and a failed writer who has been amazed to find that I am really good at the “day job” I fell back on to avoid starvation. I teach English and psychology online and really enjoy it most of the time. My students actually like me. This is confirmed every term when they turn in their evaluations but I’m always amazed when it happens. I also tutor ESL (English as a Second Language) and a few other subjects online.

I work online due to a visual handicap that makes driving impossible. I am otherwise physically healthy (for an old fart) and enjoy working out. I see a therapist regularly and take psychiatric medication (ADHD, PTSD) and expect to continue doing so for the rest of my life. I love computers but this love is largely unrequited; I’m not good with computers even though computers have been very good to me. I was born and grow up before computers became a part of everyday life and, somehow, I survived. Looking back, I can’t remember exactly how.
What I’m doing with my life
Ad hoc, ad loc, quid pro quo:
So little time, so much to know!
- Jeremy, Yellow Submarine

Right at the moment, I'm near the beginning of a PhD program in clinical sexology with a specialization in transgender care. Finally, I’m a failed writer who would have failed even more essentially if he had spent his life doing anything other than not getting anywhere as a writer. Some people are born to fail at a particular something and cheat themselves and the world out of the best they could have been by succeeding at anything else. Hitler should have spent his life not getting anywhere as an artist. The world is a sadder place because he found something he was good at.
I’m really good at
Pattern recognition, Being alone. Writing love letters for other people, playing the bass (extended range), Tasting the sweetness of the twisted apples. Helping students modify whatever patterns in their thinking, feeling and doing are keeping them from rendering and achieving satisfaction in a world they never made and can only change by changing their own behavior. I'm a revolutionary plotting to make revolutions tiny enough to fit behind one pair of eyes. I'm also good at remembering to always save string and to never eat anything bigger than my head.
The first things people usually notice about me
How curious I am and how willing I am to look foolish or weird if following social norms will make it less likely that my project of the moment will succeed. I don't intentionally hurt anyone or ignore social norms so that I can cheat someone in some way. "Weird but harmless" is the persona I present most of the time. This allows me to act naturally in situations where acting naturally will mean responding in ways that will surprise most observers.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
I read constantly. I enjoy poetry ( Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsburg, Rilke in translation) My favorites in fiction would include William S. Burroughs, Philip K. Dick, Thomas Pynchon, Kathy Acker, Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Robert Bloc, Michel Houellebec ,William Faulkner, Borges and the other Magical Realists. I love black comedy, not just in writing but in all the arts. In non-fiction I read such a wide range of books that listing individual authors would leave a lot out. I tend to read books not about "what" things mean but ""how" they mean. I listen to a wide range of music but play almost nothing but the blues and Bob Dylan when I am making music myself. I am mostly vegan.
Six things I could never do without
Good conversation
Books, movies, The Internet and other sources of information and/or vicarious experience
Musical instruments
Time alone
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Death and how to create meaning in my particular life when life on planet earth is a one in a billion to the billionth power fluke without meaning, purpose or final significance. The "cosmicism" of Lovecraft, the existentialism of Sartre and the dark gnosticism of William S. Burroughs all provide important motifs in the interior decor of the place for feeling and thinking generated by my brain and protected by my skull and my tact in casting pearls before swine. I think about politics a lot also and daydream a good bit. I also wonder if communication between people is really possible at more than the superficial level of "go get, bring here". I wonder why sex creates such a feeling, for me at least, of knowing someone well and feeling close when the epistemic value of sex per se is all but nil. I follow Helen Fisher's advice in choosing sex partners; never have sex with anyone that you would not want to fall in love with. I list "asexual" on my profile because I have not found it possible to lust after a stranger since learning what "be careful what you wish for" means in light of the connection between physical and emotional intimacy pointed out by Fisher.
On a typical Friday night I am
Reading, grading papers, playing with my cats, having deep philosophical conversations with my really brilliant housemate, following Wikipedia links with no particular place to go and no particular motive beyond pure, damnable curiosity, exercising, writing material that exists in the murky intersection where prose poetry, qualitative research, experimental fiction and creative non-fiction overlap, playing one or more of several basses having between four and eight strings, watching French films with the help of sub-titles, watching video courses on various topics, wondering if I will ever have sex again, wondering if I'm spooking out some potential sex partner by admitting that I wonder if I'll ever have sex again, wondering which photo to upload since I radically change my appearance every six months or so, trying to remember if this is really Friday night or Monday night or what, wondering if I can get away with only teaching online and never again leave The Sanctuary (what we two call the space we share), wondering if developing agoraphobia will make it even less likely that I will ever have sex again, wondering if additional people will ever join The Sanctuary, wondering if anyone reading this will ever join The Sanctuary and/or want to have sex with me, wondering if my body type is really muscular or only dumpy and if I should post a nude just so that anyone who really cared could judge for themselves. Wondering if stream-of-consciousness is the best way to convey the immediacy of my existence to someone who does not know me from Adam's house-cat.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
Twilight of the Outward Life
by Hugo von Hofsmannsthal (translated by Peter Viereck)

And children still grow up with longing eyes
That know of nothing, still grow tall and perish,
And no new traveller treads a better way;

And fruits grow ripe and delicate to cherish
And still shall fall like dead birds from the skies,
And where they fell grow rotten in a day.

And still we feel cool winds on limbs still glowing,
That shudder westward; and we turn to say
Words, and we hear words; and cool winds are blowing

Our wilted hands through autumns of unclutching.
What use is all our tampering and touching?
Why laughter, that must soon turn pale and cry?

Who quarantined our lives in separate homes?
Our souls are trapped in lofts without a skylight;
We argue with a padlock till we die,

In games we never meant to play for keeps.
And yet how much we say in saying 'twilight,'
A word from which man's grief and wisdom seeps

Like heavy honey out of swollen combs
You should message me if
You have ever fantasized about having a love affair with Mr. Spock, or helping Mr. Data really grok the trinity, or being abducted by pickle people from Uranus with yourself as Helen of Troy and the UN finally getting involved, or studying semiotics with Groucho Marx.
The two of us