My Own Cousin Bette
It is dark now and not quite an hour away from the bewitching hour when if I were to indulge it I would find myself awake for a second nightly shot at the porcelain throne. One finds as their years wear down that their physical form seems compelled to do its business at night. This block of time is perfect for reflection upon the different intervals that make up the analysis of human existence as a whole. The events as planned and those that might have come off better had the right sort of circumstances been encountered. What few strangers that I still can call on with some past figment of geniality to offer come to mind as if born by gondolas in the canals of night. I see them as they once were and too often judge them according to old family myths that currently stand in for facts. Those few opportunities for chance encounter too often cloaked in same. The presence of those related by the vague chance of past decisions of mutual family members but not necessarily blood are the most enigmatic. Sometimes they are mentally adopted after the fact out of necessity for lack of a remaining store of those once directly connected by similar genetics. I suppose those makes the process not unlike that of a bond based upon an interior vow as one might find in the ritual of marriage. The formalities of social acceptability for the bond already established by the climb up and down the existing chart of the family tree.
I think about one that I have entered into a common pact with for the period of this coming day. My own kind of Cousin Bette! Someone who the Velcro of memory seems to readily attach to visions of a young somewhat awkward behaving girl. One who through an unexpected shared incident or two proved to be an enthusiastic anticipant in the is odd adventure progressively referred to as one’s life. That old stone wall of my own solitary path removing my from easy view of the strange notions of female to male and its reverse that all are challenged by. I often wonder about what sort of inner thought drive her internal ‘mules’ oath as they drag her own respective store of memories along that serve as that convenient cloak of memory that clothes her in public. To be in her presence is to be challenged by a sense of perpetual motion that if actions are in threat of being sequestered turns immediately into an unbearable for of restlessness. Someone that is caught in a tireless whirlpool of rethinking her role in Motherhood though her baby chicks have long since matured from the incubator. Men in general and the ritual possibility of romantic connection with same within her immediate circle being like the former discard a few versions back of a snake tight skin. Whatever experiences remaining unforgettable to her inner sensibilities being cards kept close to her vest. In this sense, an odd font ever ready to demonstrate her nurturing of those around her expressed in rapidly postulated formulas of quickly offered opinions that while sometimes not a sensitive tot he situation as probably intended still fulfill the promise of an earnest attempt to satisfy. There being some strange aspect to being a woman naturally endowed like the extra flesh of the chest that propels her to tirelessly sally forth as a savior?
Perhaps that one great mystery left in an otherwise man-made technological universe of magically producing offspring through that strange chalice where all must enter called the womb. Whatever mathematics can pretend to explain remains inexplicable about where the small conscious parcels originate from before they are deposited in that mailbox! That role commanding awe from their opposite number as well as a certain amount of mental distance that is emotionally unavoidable. If I were to imagine the personality living deep within the catacombs beneath that official domicile I might be encouraged to speculate what visions of earthly purpose and questions about same persist unanswered? Her best answers of the moment voicelessly expressed in a ceaseless number of immediate problem solution reactions to each tumbling stone encountered in that asteroid belt around her own consciousness. Does this make the expanding universe of mankind by chance encounter and coupling like some odd form of slow motion explosion whose sense of offbeat order the only most logical reaction to the endless chaos that seems to be the fundamental elixir of life? The distance inferred by the functional term ‘cousin’ inferring all the benefits of companionship while enacting few responsibilities of the sort that one would have to traverse in a more intimate relationship. Especially those involving that boiling pot of persistent phantom animal attachment to procreate called romantic love. How strange to be a male and not be tasked to pitch a perfect game but merely relax into the role of easy victim that opposite mental will to nurse and yet maintain respect by occasionally offering it’s male counterpart in terms of providing? The endless compunction to engage in mutual rituals of attachment strengthened by constant proof so ceaselessly encouraged by that larger parasite known as modern society both enigmatic and eventually tiring. The deprogramming sessions universally enjoyed evidencing the angst enjoyed in this sense by many after yearly family ‘get togethers’ in reciprocal ‘dirty dish washing’ and other equally forgettably meaningless holiday offers.
How one seems naturally bound to become caught up in these cults takes literal decades to unravel to a point where they seem to make some rational sense. But for my own ,Cousin Bette’, they seem both active neighborhood volcano and storming ocean. A perpetually aging spinster ever obsessed with the varied strategies of appearing for the world as the fresh young bride. So easy for the male of the species to recall the brief stretch of time in total peace within one’s mother’s arms. Forgetting to ponder that this bygone sense of once ever reliable nirvana is denied one’s female counterpart as they so soon become the operative vehicle of same. For those little girls within it is that insecure universe of their daddy’s lap. Something that one desires to be ever-present yet so temporal in the experience of its duration as expressed in a desire to be held. Separate dimensions respectively according accolades for performance versus an insistent desire for perpetual security. I have to suppose that this is the gulf that will eternally separate the two genders as long as the principle of same is biologically encouraged? Maybe this accounts for the intuition that I suppose is mutual that both she and I are characters that at the end of the day are not fully formed? People that require some fundamental need for the respective sense of world savvy rationality that each of us have uniquely encountered in our own corners of the world? Gifts tossed back and forth in sly witticisms and sarcastic well-meaning patter that mostly bounce off the thick scar tissue of experience that form the collagen of our skins? Does the whole of man and woman kind eventually end up back in the final destiny of that one initial solitary egg?