This dream? A fellow? As part of an entourage, part of a party, part of a group that somewhat knew each other. The object of his affections a comely maiden unfortunately a party girl that was too easy to dispense her most sacred of promises. And then forget them. And he with some silly notion that He was the apple of her eye as the ultimate target of that cupid managing her affections. Only to find that we two were destined to travel to another place for her to have a rendezvous with another man. A black man. He felt the urge to kill her but you couldn’t do such things. The first time he put up with it as we all went out to dinner. The second time he called a cab to take him away from her for good. He didn’t like ingenues! He didn’t like belle’s of the ball! He didn’t like anyone who would treat me in so off-handed a manner as to one second provide him with false hope and then in the next instant forget the fact of the near proximity of his entire existence. Who was this bitch? God he would have liked to find out! So familiar right now, but yet her exact identity remaining veiled.
I know for certain on one specific occasion they went out as a couple and yet, as the narrator of this sad tale, I am aware as a fact that once they arrived there they were no longer were the same. She, all of a sudden changing the rules of the game and her new agenda being that she was upon the arm of someone else. And he, now merely, part of her entourage. I know for a fact that they started out the evening as a couple! And too certainly well that by the end of this evening they no longer had any relationship left at all.
He was mad! He knew that he was mad for a very long time. Not mad in terms of losing his mind, but mad in terms of being left off at the gulch, stopped at the gate, and not allowed to continue for some trivial reason. No! He was mad because of her! Her and so many others just like her who thought because of the fact of an apparent outward felicity he was the type of guy to be counted upon to serve as a doormat to wipe their feet upon and then exceed to their every whim. And quite frankly, his kind of final revenge soon became to objectify them all. To objectify them not merely as a piece of meat focusing in upon the most obvious trite parts of their anatomy. But classifying them by the size of their lesser parts merely making deigning to offer comparative match with this and that to a common pair of teats. Gazing at a beautiful woman that he once might have found desirable as a possible lifelong mate and then remarking in the most objectionable manner possible upon her simply in the terminology of rude mention of her reduced to the relative measure of her tits and ‘cunt’. Relegating the rest of her to no more than simply another evil cad masquerading in sheep’s cloth. Rating her in that gross gutter categories of breast size, and nipple depth, and profundity of ass, not to mention the accessories to same. All in a very purposefully trivial and meaningless sense. Yes! he hated her! He hated them all! He knew all too well that like a viper they could turn in an instant as if in the nature of some small insignificant insect that at first cursory glance might seem so innocuous and harmless? But that also contained a potent venom that could knock you down to the ground and take your life from you in a matter of a single second. Nothing to play around with! Certainly, that was his fatal mistake to begin with.
My own mother’s love of flowers that she often portrayed on canvas and paper throughout her existence may well have come from the love of her father. Her father’s garden being a humble city-bound plot behind the family’s house that was ever well-tended when she was a child. That topic of ancestral voices calling one to former interests from over the eons seeming to provide merit. Her great aunt’s ire providing antipathy to such notions of beauty with bowls of scalding water hurled down upon them when she and her mother went often and unsuccessfully to visit her grandmother as matron of the house. Of course, those old world jealousy’s remaining ever-unquenchable in their fire. Unhappiness being something to be borne without too much complaint. Something to be endured. But, not a reason onto itself. A condition that like a cold must be seen through, or as with a persistent disease, simply endured as best one can.
As of late, I sense a weakness growing within afflicting those once oaken timbers supporting his physical frame. Ones that might be likened to the supports of a house that had weakened over the years by the introduction of the persistence of some undefined outside force of sorrow that had slowly deteriorated them. In his case, the heart and the circulation that it is responsible for constantly enlivening the body that comes of it. The frequent occasion of the perpetual diversion of long hours, poor diet, and too infrequent exercise a possible culprit. And perhaps, crowning above all, that lifelong melancholy of too many decades of solitude bereft of any companionship? So often comes to mind from out of the past a brief glimpse of mine own world that I once visited here and there when some promise of possible lasting felicity was in the air. Moments of temporal happiness and pleasure that now when brought to mind seeming so incredible that they had ever been one of my own? And for the knowledge of those epiphanies as such, I am grateful. Yet, with each also comes a lingering feeing of want? To slake those desires unfulfilled that in hindsight makes me wish I would have taken a road less traveled, and perhaps might have willingly risked a different destination? But, now within this cold and lonely bed of the moment, listening to the unending song of those imaginary crickets chiming within repeatedly within my ears; the tintinous melody of the evening racking my brain; above all exists, in a world long forgotten, the joys of nature, and the wonder of the bountiful earth. And those universal connections that were once so deeply enjoyed by all.
It is unfortunate that he had always been both a lonely child and a lonely man? A person that would have hoped for more company in his life. Those of a more sympathetic and kindly nature much like that if my own mother. One that was always a gifted spirit in my life providing much joy and happiness where many times she had precious little of her own. It seems that the ongoing struggle of common folk is ever beset by discontent and lack of good fortune. Something that those many in similar circumstance, like myself, share so universally across our tiny globe. But is it up to me to know, laying here alone, speaking these words? As if, by these utterances, enter into an unknown camaraderie, to believe that such things can inspire by their mere awareness? Yet the lurking presence of the immensity of the gulf of that emptiness shared by all too many is not a burden to be taken lightly! The edge of the grave being so close and cold than one might imagine; waiting, waiting, waiting for the inevitability of being quickly rolled into it and forgotten. These melodramatic notes and tones simply tossed off to a soliloquy of empty musing. There are worse things of course? But, what could be worse than losing one’s sense of love? Love of the world? And love of the people within it? And indeed, that desire to make it a priority to have these things in one’s life? To find some hope of sharing them with others. As well as the hope to find something shared by others with one’s self. That smell of the earth in morning and the wind at the break of day. To see everything all within the glow of wonder and in the positive with great potential. And find the eventual end of day with some measure of success despite.
The foolishness of patent innocence in a night at the house of burlesque at the tip of Florida somewhere spent long ago. Dragged along to same by that same one half of an unhappy couple so many centuries past. His discontent with being left in a lurch by a lack of reciprocated feelings of his spouse having magnetized our journey that evening. The two us sitting at front row center through three serial performances in a row watching the young women physically enact their own best versions of unrepentant male fantasies. One in particular portraying a primitive armed with a spear and at the end in the climax of her driving it home again and again into the edge of the stage just before us. He being the culpable party of the two that had insisted to sit a mere inch away from this tongue and cheek display. Spying each of these young maidens suspiciously, yielding no sense of serious verisimilitude as to their ownership of such theatrical foolery. These performers in turn having a great sense of appreciation in those moments. A frame of mind extraordinary for the time by a young man still busily at work finding some oats to sow. But now, caught up by advanced age and failing health, recounting the moment as some small tidbit to pull from an otherwise harrowing past.
He had seen her first at the quadrangle by the market. Not the sort that he normally would have been attracted to. But, for some reason, and he was not sure why, she walked along with him and he with her? Not so much encapsulated in some lingering air of innocence as being someone very good. And after that short walk he realized what a pleasure it had been to be with that person. How wonderful she was! And he wanted to spend more time with her, which he did. She arrived with a number of young women for whose charge she was responsible. He was gloriously enamored to see her return. At one point she spontaneously encircling his waist with her arms as if it was the most natural act of nature imaginable. And he, at the time, noticing her form within the diaphanous covering, not thinking about it one way or another. That big block of ice around his heart melting away in an instant. This random someone that he could be with. That he could care about. That could care about him. A whole new perspective on life. She was blessed with innocence. Much in the way that other might have been cursed by their own evil. Maybe not with so great a polar divide than that? But with a quality that radiated about her vicinity. That outward impression of awkwardness of limb by cultural standards was something that naturally exuded an unexpected backwards sense of charm. Maybe through some unfamiliarity on his part? The world as such not needing his approval but demeaning his respect. The temple of his grief and the governance of his angry discontent falling to the challenge of his tearing it back down. Throwing its stones asunder. And once again walking humbly and without expectation in the world such as it was.
He knew in the midst of the recall of that forlorn previous encounter that he had lost his watch. A time piece. His desire to recover it having been a dangerous article. The search for the same offering, even now, to confuse this immediate rare find with that other one so much less deserving. His impatient unremitting male nature wanting to strike out without any hesitation upon embarking upon another such search for what he felt that he had previously lacked. Yet now looming before him ever-present, like some frenzied maddened dog too quickly unleashed, yet an ever too direct notion in finding the same.