I called her this evening -- afforded myself an opportunity to vent spleen and bile. Again, my entreating her for a few therapeutic words of truth was met with stubborn defiance. I could not even invoke seven years of selfless devotion with any success. I did, however, gain a certain hard-won, and late-in-coming, insight into my ex-wife.
My ex-wife is, in essence, emotionally retarded and, what is worse, given to universalizing her retardation. From such an individual one can expect no consideration, no sympathy for one's despair, even if this individual is responsible for it. Seven years might as well be seven decades; the end result is the same: the relationship one has with her forges no enduring bonds, makes no lasting impressions, provkes no insurmountale regret. Rather, she consigns these years to the memory hole of the heart. A broken marriage (one she smashed) is, according to her perverse philosophy, simply something she and all other parties involved must move on from, as if the inevitable hurry of time is an anodyne for a broken heart.
My ex-wife is an automaton, a veritable Turing Machine of emotions. Hence my undoing: when to a woman all emotions are all equally inauthentic, it becomes difficult for her lover or husband to detect authenticity, especially if he is someone who has resisted all contemporary encouragement to sacrifice his humanity. To such a woman he becomes as much a curious prodigy as the man from the reserve is to the other Soma-popping, pornography-glutted characters of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
Reader, I married her -- an emotional retard of a woman bred from a town that causes emotional retardation: Tucson, Arizona. A pox on her!
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