The Piano Has Been Drinking Poetics

Standard
Q – What’s my type? A – “Dark bearded men! That write and don’t care what they look like! I’m talking philosophical, Tom Waits the piano has been drinking poetics!”

Whilst discussing all be it a hypothetical break from my usual type of man, I asked one of my best friends just what she thought my type was, as she was so convinced that the man I was describing was far too away from my idea of “perfection”. The above answer is word for word what she answered and it got me thinking that maybe that is where I have been going wrong. Searching for a man that I know, on the basis of their very character, are going to be eratic, egotistical and sombre – three things that I have come to expect from my experiences with these kind of men.But then again isn’t this what I love about them? I like the sporadic way their minds work, the tilt they take the world in through and that humbling sense of confusion that they radiate through their alcohol soaked pours. I revel in the fact that they read books, reall genuine hard to handle books, that expand their creativity and mould their absolutely ludicrous thought patterns. You never know what they are going to say, what subject of conversation is going to come up or who they are going to put on the record player. It feels – liberating.

Then again there is a draw back to these men, something that they all hold in common and something again that I have noticed after being married (and subsequently seperated) from one – that a hell of a lot of musicians hold in common – they lack sincerity. They read those books because it fits their style, they drink whiskey not because they like it but because its what their idols drink, they grow beards not because they have no need to shave it but because it suits the clothes that they seem not to think about wearing, when in actual fact a lot of thought goes into looking like they do not care. They play their instruments and sing their songs not because of a genuine love of the art, a way of expressing their thoughts or perpetuating their experiences, but simply because it is seen as an attractive skill to have.

I have met a lot of good, genuine “bohemian”, “beatnik”, “hippie” whatever you want to call them, people but sadly they are few and far between. It seems that the very people you think are unique, always have a way of turning out to be a dime a dozen, with their eyes set on the stars because in all reality it is simply closer than the moon. I don’t want a star chaser to sing me songs in the small hours of the morning, or croon to me over the empties whilst listening to forgotten jazz that neither of us really enjoy.

I want a moon man. I want a man who wakes up in the morning and knows that there is something beyond the stars, beyond the countless ways you can sell your soul to seek reprise quickly and effortlessly. I do not know what these moon men look like, I do not know if in fact they have beards, or write poetry, or listen to Tom Waits but I know that I am not asking for much. A man, simple in his complexity who believes in peace rather than love. Who is not constricted by Hallmark connotations of romance but not so liberal as to assume that romance does not matter.

It appears to me I need a break from the afore mentioned men that my friend (who knows me far too well for either of our benefit) and I both know are part of the problem rather than the solution. I am in no hurry. I have a perfect partner who knows me better than anyone else in the world and whom I love so much it hurts. Who every moment I spend with feels like peace and who when touches my face helps me find my heaven. They do not call me sweetheart, sugar, darling or baby – she calls me Mummy.

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