His penis pulsated unexpectedly hard within the tight grip. It was cold but the determined firmness of the phantom grasp made it even harder. The fingers had settled along its rubbery shank. At first delicately then compressing in firmness as the embrace of the member became incrementally even stronger. That same old feeling of a heavy emotional displacement from below spread upward from his belly towards his heart. He could almost feel that same old vortex of building warmth rekindled from that now ancient youthful vitality. A companion tugging sensation encompassing the region around his anus. Like an old car too long in storage revived by spark of a new battery he felt feelings and emotions that were hard to recall since the last sign of their age old disappearance. It had seemed like ages since his organ has been touched by another. He felt as if it was being resurrected from a long period of death.The sharp edge of the scalpel caressed the base of his tight scrotum as the hand still in tight embrace of his shaft used it to lift the package of his testicles skywards tugging them tautly away from his pelvis. He could not seem to account for the occasion that had invited this renewal of a taste of forgotten sensation of anxious animal desire. The incision slowly commencing around its base with a long studied circumferential cut around the base of his sexual apparatus. As the blade cut deep he seemed to sink back into the stupor that he had been found in before this unanticipated episode. A deep and unchartable period of rest that he felt would be hard to awaken once again from. After much care and professional ceremony, the organ was fully detached and lifted away from the cadaver. It was laid carefully into a clear container of Formalin to be studied at a later time by the student for her examination of the male reproductive system the following week.
Where am I? It is so gray and misty outside that I can barely see about a quarter of a mile before the mist begins to dematerialize the horizon. Please get me the volume down format the shelf and tell me in the numerology section what the significance of 2049 is? Thirteen? Change? Where am I? Chicago? Or Los Angeles, the cardboard two dimensional cutout of Indonesian shadow puppet play? Well the current rule is the bigger the movie franchise the more exotic and unique the effect’s treatment for the distributor’s logo must be! Someone just dropped an ancient big leather book volume down the middle of a stairwell and its echo is booming across the room! Oh, that’s the film! Slow over modulated sliding trumpets? Coronets? Horns! It must be the Blade Runner sequel I went into this movie auditorium to view!
OK, I am not going to try to not make too many snotty overly clever snarky comments from this point on. I saw the original in the theater on June 25th 1982 downtown when I was in a suburb of Chicago. The first theatrical version. I didn’t like it then! Too bizarre for the tastes of my time. Crowded, claustrophobic, morally dystopic? Lacking the level of adventure or positive forward thinking of a future that I personally wanted to participate in. And the heavy emphasis on what would eventually thirty years become state sponsored Politically Correct race guilt transposed in such a cumbersome speech plagued manner to what essentially would be called surrogates for what is now commonly derogatorily referred to as ‘whitey’ left me flat. Does it mean anything that Ridley Scott had to reedit some seven different versions until he got it right? The last one blissfully absent of the PC preachy narrative.
But! Here we are! Hundreds of space opera’s and post-apocalyptic scenarios later the viewing audience is in the same place. The ‘white’ viewing audience, of my people, I should say! For given the current crash in the fortunes of big budget overruns in Hollywood productions over the last five years plus, their stilted PC morality tainted big screen products all seem to die a still birth. Thank God the studios say for the Asian market! But in fact with the exception of two persons of the classic negro persuasion, who play their race at its worst, the world as re-imagined by its Canadian director and typical Jewish hegemony approved production team, is all ‘white’. It seems that the script writers must have jumped all over the less savory portions of “The Man In The High Castle” also penned by the same original author [that ‘Dick’!]. Phillip had this thing in big time for bashing Nazi’s. That obviously impressed the bigwigs in Hollywood since day one. Since, of course, Hollywood has a hard-on to disparage anything ‘white’ these days, he furnished plenty of anti Aryan seed material at that nice price that Jews always love [posthumously]. Gone are those star studded clever fast talking stage talent ridden musicals from the genius of their great-grandfathers who were ever ‘hat in hand‘ waiting for entrance to the all ‘white’ country club gate just before the mid-century! Now they seem to want revenge on all those of European descent bashing the progeny of their all ‘white’ audiences. “No blacks or Hispanics in the auditorium . . . “my God! I can’t recall a time not hearing a single cellphone conversations throughout an entire film!”
Without threatening to disclose what is a very, very, very, slow motion ‘onion‘ style unraveling plot that routinely drops plot points like more massive 18th century library volumes solidly hitting the echo chamber floor, it is enough to say that one is expected to sit back and test the mettle of one’s eyelids. Not for the Voight Kampff test to determine not if you are in fact a replicant. But rather if you have almost fallen asleep several times in the course of the Turkish taffee-like flow. I think that I just saw a caterpillar crawl by at top speed. The overly ear crashing Blade Runner sounds are unfortunately a very poor ersatz imitation of the original score composed by Vangelis. One of the few big flops in my opinion for composer Hans Zimmer. Who must by now still be in therapy from becoming hooked on over-driven “Bwaaaah” sounds. The endless super loud echo chamber choking out long horn slurs and reverbrant canceling shoe drop echoes cannot compare with the original genius of the man who tempered the mix of his arrangements much better. I have to say that what was drawn out over long in overall running time could have been neatly approached in literally half the time. Unless one wishes to participate in some mass downer. I haven’t been so down since wading through the interminable “Intersteller!” The character highlights include an unstoppable super maniacal robotic Wallace Corporation version of the current chairman of the National Organization for Women. Her son or brother or something sporting ‘uber-sized’ eye cataracts having an unshakeable serial killer fetish. A cluster of very street tough and mean tiny Borstal lads that seem to be on loan from the last gritty version of ‘Oliver’, And, of course! A very very old duopoly of two of the originals stars. One who now passes for ‘white’ yet retains his prowess in Origami. And the other that ever irascible Jewish adventure hero wet-dream being one of the tribe himself, “Introducing for another victory lap, Mr. ‘Indiana Jones‘”. “Hey! It’s Harrison Ford folks!” “Cheer up!” “You know how great he always is playing himself!”
But as is the case with everything Hollywood these days, it is the special effects salted liberally with a little ‘tits and ass’ that shines above all. The current penchant for that failing fleet of “Titanic” overblown ledger book expense big budgets is to cram every audience memorable scene of old reconfigured, effect, chapter and verse. All into one overloaded carriage that is savagely whipped till the ‘horse meat’ posing as plot along until it drops a load in the last reel. [Hey pal! No reels anymore! This is the digital age!] Quite frankly I got tired of Ryan Gosling ‘larping‘ about before the first half. Robin Wright still remained the studios ‘poorboy ‘ answer to Sigourney Weaver. The other two dames might best consider a career as secretaries in the front office. The meaner one on the fast track to becoming a studio executive head. The fact that the setting of Las Vegas shown ‘grittily‘ destroyed in the past tense make a good case that the entertainment industry is connected somehow to the banking industrial military complex’s false flag ops given the immediate timing of national events. Was it bad? Wast it Good? I can’t judge! It is no longer my era. And what I desire in the escape of several hours within a darkened auditorium is I am sure completely dated by current standards. There are no such things as real heroes these days in popular fiction. Just losers and malcontents that shake their fists and cause further destruction. Just endless uneasy relationships with indifferent sometimes brutal parenting. Why else would such a dysfunctional world exist? May be that is the key to it all! Bad parenting creates monsters. And it sure seems that we are in no short supply of those these days!
The old adage states that, “Women are cats and men are dogs!“, This can be taken a variety of ways depending on which side the ‘sitter’s‘ and ‘pointer’s‘ you happen to be on. And certainly the particular mores of the era that favors one or the other. For my money things are bit less complex and very less than genteel than this old maxim suggests. That is if you ARE on the receiving end. I am sure both sides have something in personal experience to bemoan. But in my own case it is that ever persistent general lack of regard that women so very often afford men. Men after all to this sisterhood of thought are a commodity. Consider that to many of them, their male counterpart is a conveyance. One that is expected to instantly provide many facets without reservation. An emotional Swiss army knife offering concern, sympathy, and protection. As well as a bestial tool of lust driven satisfaction to rub away that occasional animal itch down from further below the palpitations of the heart. This current era, as popularized by the quickly atrophying mass media, being an Armageddon for carefree males. One that, even for that noble much vaunted class of Lothario’s [AKA., known colloquially as ‘bad boys’] can just as easily earn a bill hook to an eternity of court ordered spousal support for their one night of irresponsible sexual transgression. But that, of course, is the playing field at the extreme of our hapless gender. The side that I am most concerned with, one that I myself hold a much faded time weary union card to, being that of the lowly goodhearted ‘dumb schmuck‘. The kind of guy that gets so easily loaded up with female histrionics like a fat drunken Santa Claus on the eve of December 24th. But then has that massive attack of delirium tremens promptly on the first of January when he busily launders the latest, her majesty’s shoe prints off the back of his shirt. Simply put, women have no real world sense of conscience when it comes to taking plunder from any willing male. Their own over generous self-forgiveness providing quick excuses for giving little, if anything, back in return. As if this behavior is a god-given right that has been handed down to them by Queen Isis herself. A blind spot in moral consciousness if there ever was one. Something that very quickly becomes tedious and tiresome to any rational male with his head on straight.
There seems no ability by any member of that far end of the species to identify or cure this flaw. A genetic implant that by its ability to get away Scot Free, runs through the same old sequence of steps from a brief virginal period. Of the proverbial mother goddess style of entrapment supposedly fulfilling every male fantasy [as much as any female mind can comprehend]. To the remainder of the duration of cohabitation where they become the center of attention as a metaphorical toaster consecutively popping out the next generation of offspring, slice after slice buttered up. Then the waters of the Red Sea between their legs becoming a much narrower Suez charging ever more exorbitant rates for passage to a much less enthusiastic land of faded epiphanies. The immediacy of the world as a whole in their midst expected to rotate around them as their smallest whim. Or swiftly suffer the mounting volcanic firestorm of an ever vengeful goddess Kali. If for any reason this potent potion of building estrogen unbounded is in any way interfered with, then their interest quickly wanes to paint a gray picture of their being some fatally wronged incarnation of Anna Karenina. That groveling ‘schmuck in waiting‘ usually growing sour despite that all too rapidly fading rusty invocation of his dear mother’s voice, “For everyone, there is someone!”
“Hah!” The adage quickly faded into mental exhaustion from the cagey feline’s never ending bag of self-serving tricks. That initial overt display of gentlemanly respect and judicious good behavior that was initially offered, now in hindsight mere foolishness on his part, after his prospective mate’s quick transformation into a Medusa. A self-imposed facial Psy-Op of the poor dumb fool that leaves him wondering why he was born without the tool set and inclination to turn the tables and make the other gender suffer? Something as ‘macho’ in line with his better endowed male rivals. Those poor dumb canines nursing their facial scratches while the most indifferent local kitty licks the blood off her claws. Without that constant emotional drumming of genetic based corporal lust captivating the psyche of the former to entrance the latter, the entire species would quickly die out. And in fact, current statistics now show just that! One need not wonder much why in former millennia, castles were routinely assaulted , women carried away to be raped ‘en masse‘ and men off on their merry way to the next prize to plunder. It was just simply much easier for all parties concerned! The women got new homes with more children to raise. And those most successful at invasion got their rocks off moving from town to town with nary a care! The ‘iron boot‘ in our present era being upon the other foot.
The experience of this author, in light of hindsight, being recalled as one disaster after another. Spilled milk and high hanging grapes far up the tree aside, the usual pattern being the usual semblance of possibility quickly brought crashing down to the cold lack of comfort of uncompromising realities. The emotional immaturity and self-centeredness of females seemingly an un-detachable built-in mechanism. Something incapable of having regard for sincerity or mutuality. “My way or the highway!“, the clarion call ever under wraps of the current romantic pretender who now has very quickly tired of passing out favors or attention and shared concern as their claws seem well set. Certainly not that faded picture long ago painted of someone faithful and true, that like every childhood fairy tale, quickly evaporated two steps beyond of infancy. If this assessment seems a bitter and childish? Then I might point to the abysmal statistics on the bilious sanctity of marriage. Something long freed from the carrot and stick approach of an adherence to religious dogma for life. Something that has resulted in a carefree lifestyle for females. And a corresponding ‘ball and chain‘ life experience for males. And God forbid that children show their unruly little heads in the game. The only thing that can be said for the human race combined as a whole being that we all to quickly live for the prolonged fantasy but eventually die off in the wake of its absence.
So many time I find after a particularly extensive internal drama spent under the covers in the dead of night that I find myself delivered back into the embrace of my bed once again several ours short of waking. Not any particularly random time but so very often, that exact time of 3:45 AM. On the same exact fraction of an hour being when some six years before my own beloved father drew his last breath on earth. No what makes me wonder is that my being a legacy of his genes and no doubt his eventual ailments of affliction of the heart that make it the most likely reason written on one’s toe tag. It seems curious that I should so naturally be brought to consciousness again and again at this exact time. Small tiny sharp stabs to stage left anterior just below my own thorax. Almost in some strange way as if I had been called back to that habitual place called waking reality. One in my shoes could easily speculate that this phenomena is not exclusive but shared with many others. So much so that after rising from the warmth of rumpled covers into the persistent reigning cloak of darkness I have resorted to the web to in much to some level of surprise that this precise time of night is said to be the hour when the devils come out to dance. A fact that has one’s inner self occasioning imagery from Disney’s classic of demonic ancient tribal rites, “Fantasia.”
My own road to this awareness complete with palpitations of an aching chest beginning in the still cogent memory with some vague scenario commencing on a farm where I had been handed some vague assignment to work with a woman at what I might have described as an inmate of a ‘hen house’. The downtrodden collection of sheds and barns, stables and smithy all gathered around a central court focused upon a raised platform serving as stage. A convenient coven for the faithful of a small congregation of earthy looking females playing both main performers and primary attraction to the audience of themselves. Myself now outwardly the inescapably noticeable Caucasian male sticking out in naked view like a big red sore thumb before this aching distill crowd. And as such, my opinions considered as being completely unacceptable. But in that contemporary humble guise of as a simple respectful ‘cucked‘ male quiet mindful of their ire barely tolerated as spectator. I sat beside an old female friend named Sharon who in her own usual way seemed forever diplomatic in avoiding awareness of such obvious schisms. This universal war on the topic of male potency as heatedly conducted each tongue successively carrying equally sharp barbs dripping with venom. Time and again, the overzealous spittle of biting little speeches boiling over to outwardly condemn all things evil as being defaulted to a failure by that element of ‘man‘ within ‘mankind‘. It all seemed so silly to me in my silence. The presentations, one after another, evidencing an all too obvious inherent weakness of internal character within each of the speakers in their barely concealed lack of any internal self worth. “How odd?“, I thought on the fly sitting there. That this sort of mutual Achilles heel was so blatantly shared and evident within this group? And being so easily interchangeable among them like some form of emotional currency acceptable as a form of unquestionable communal wealth within their dogmatic Feminist realm? One particular verbal arrow loosed my way daring blood as the speaker expressed he venom in a particularly loud fashion. The spoken projectile striking home bringing forth an immediate knee jerk vocal response in kind from me. “RACIST!”, my own voice rang out loudly over the throng towards the speaker. Barely a murmur within the crowd was detectable for the next moment. But then a wave of expected mumbling struck like lightning through the entire crowd. One in a fashion that one would expect to evidence in a stormy wind cutting forcefully through the un-plucked sheaf’s of wheat. Its virulence disrupting the entire field in a wasteful shower of unharvested grain. It was now time for me to exist this farmyard in order to carry out this vague mission. The unspecified collaboration of a sort with another party involving the collection of facts on a topic that might be of possible interest to the general readership of an unnamed local publication in seeding an article of passing generic interest.
I didn’t look to see if another woman was parked on the the bench seat next to me as I exited in my big blur and white outdated sedan. Relieved to be away of such unwholesome irritations, I headed down the expected stretch of road that unexpectedly identified itself as a place and proximity not too unfamiliar to me at all? Some place claiming ownership in my own routine vernacular as not being, “so far from home.” The segment of highway just beyond the intersection offering a shock in the specter of a cathedral-like malevolent vision of several city blocks crammed full of old derelict buildings. Ones so hoary to my first glance as to judge the lot as being completely abandoned over centuries. A second cautionary glance affording a stark impression of their having collapsed upon each other in such a manner as one might expect of wax dripped haphazardly over an extended time by gravity onto tightly packed votive candles left too close over a long night. The red dirt street splitting into a matched set of lanes diverging to either side of an undefined median. Both completely unpaved inching upwards over a steeply inclined Hell of well-worn ruts and muddy potholes that seemed nu-navigable to the eye. Most incredibly of all in the midst of this inhospitable environment families of suburban tourists rambled about unperturbed as if amidst some form of holiday carnival attraction? My own course forward already plotted by inattention in crossing the intersection I carefully ambled my vehicle up through this gauntlet as carefully as possible. These roughly tumbled lanes betwixt derelict structures inhabited occasionally by boutiques of the sorts of barely stocked store one might expect to find serving as commercial way stations in those bleak economic deserts of inner city black ghetto neighborhoods. Large German shepherd dogs were in evidence everywhere. Their universal popularity within this marginal municipality possibly as a form of general warning. These quarrelsome looking beasts roaming about the streets with a brash arrogant independence suggesting a communal sense of barely contained menace. You could hear them constantly growling from within your car’s tightly closed windows. As if each was marking out its own territory vigilantly stalking some potential target to quickly harass. Their collective demeanor surpassed in belligerence only by an occasional uniformed thug sloppily attired in the threadbare trappings of law enforcement. Driving further into this mess seemed some form of unconscious death wish courting disaster.
A gray area of unconscious mist accompanied a transition to someplace not quite explicable. My next appearance being within the battered confines of a large mold ridden disabled structure that served as the lobby of the town’s main hotel. The reason for my foolishness in having allowed myself to be there only be explained as a tacit compliance to that unnamed female consort whose presence was more characteristic of some form of phantom sylph than a real life flesh and blood companion. Exhaustion taking the place of caution, I recall settling down on a patch of floor by a wall to lean back upon some bags and begin to fall into a snooze. My impulse being brought to an immediate hasty conclusion by the intercession of the probing of an adolescent shepherd dog that struck his its tooth bound nuzzle hard against my temple. The young demon snapping angrily at my ear for good measure. Where in any other place on earth the infamy such an interruption might have been a form of blame placed upon the head of the hound’s owner in this case it summoned the immediate antagonism of a local magistrate. Jumping over me like a canine. he solemnly warning me to quickly move along lest I be arrested on the ground of some minor infraction if I did not exit the vicinity immediately. He seemed to seethe from within from an inexhaustible wellspring of rage as it was the true inspiration behind his profession. Not needing any further hints I made my way out of range of his general locale and back towards my vehicle. The exact location of which now seeming to be playing hide and seek trickery with my foggy memory. My companion now an astral entity whose presence I could barely sense anymore at that point. The ceiling now above me cloistered in shadowy dark offering only speculation as to the underlying meaning of such a flighty episode. The connection of thoughts invading the inclination to fall back into sleep charting a direction to the inference that there might be the possibility of another source for this unpleasantness. One that had equal resonance with the notion of the hand of other realms interceding with the conduct of my own. And with those of my now long departed family members. The dance of demons at their high point at the most expected hour of their nightly revelries. The passport allowing their visitation upon a victim being the unhealthy lifestyle of the ready host accompanied by the possession of his long overburdened soul.
I just returned a few moments ago from the movie that I should have seen yesterday with my relatives. Valerian. Directed by “Fifth Element” French director Luc Bession, it may be the answer why the French were excluded from the other current Hollywood Blockbuster, “Dunkirk.” Where the later is critically acclaimed and a total downer, Valerian promises the key element to pleasing and audience and leaving them hop, skip and jumping back intuit he light of day with a happy, hopeful chord. The journalistic critics who tried to say that it was incoherent were either listening to their parent marketing liaison’s who said push “Dunkirk” and pan “Valerian“. The irony being of course that both in their way push the idea of Globalism. One in the sense of future events to come full of horrific conflict, the other in a resolution of the most treasured of all human emotions, the love of a man and a woman. Albeit a bit adolescent at face value. But in fairness recounting in everyone that point in time when loving someone else is first consummated by the vow of a lifetime of commitment to them. It’s central characters embody the best genetic parts of the high European beauty from the high fashion runways of Paris infused into the graceful frames of Western Africa’s Masai somewhat stealing the thunder from the latest most preeminent Hollywood money-grosser “Avatar” living is the perfect sort of Utopia that only rich Southern Californian’s could only dream of.
The picture perfect lost Eden portrayed in what quickly becomes a paradise lost is more than made up for by the petulant innocence of its two main protagonists. Even my own scarred and stony heart seemed almost ready to revive at in many ways was much of the same old cliche trials and tribulations of male and female that have been handled in a similar manner in so many previous films over the history of Hollywood. The dialogue is smart and the asides clever enough to break a smile without being forced. The empathy building for finding out the meandering path of the heroes’ journey that the two embark upon keeping ones interest throughout its one hundred and thirty-seven minutes. The guest appearances employ the talents of invited star performers in particular being the best parts of Rihanna. A cult figure that in other venues only seems to produce great doubts in terms of clammy cultural context. Where “Avatar” as an experience has many wishing for impossible existence as part of another species, the conclusion of “Valerian” plays upon the retro of what in some ways was a kinder gentler less complex time when space travel was characterized by hopeful spirit enriching encounters with the unknown. Not, face hugging predatory monsters bent upon species extinction.
Sure this is the kinder part of the Illuminati’s wet dream of a genetically enhanced Kalergi approved ‘milk shake‘ world society. But it’s soldiering in the war for the quest of perfect Social Justice is made palatable. Not shoved done your throat at gunpoint. Maybe you are too old to bathe in the cleansing ‘pearls’ of youth culture shit out the behinds of Disneyesque cuddle toys but grounded in the hope that love does indeed conquer all! Fuck the critics! Go see this film!
Which is better? To be universally recognized or remain completely anonymous? The new form of triumphal surrender as therapy to your impossibilities. It is all too easy to fall into the stereotype, or embody it from the start. Playing card parliamentary rules when you plot to ask someone a pointed question. Sometimes it would be wise to have prepared your own answer lest you be found wanting when the same question is turned around on you. All the old war heroes can be lined up before the cameras like trophies. They just have to show up to collect. In the best sense of same, women are there to be admired. What is fairness after all but simply a fabricated mental impression, yet not a truth, and never an inflexible standard?
Long ago the will to love was lost. Why? How much dirt on a grave does there need to be to make one think it has never been anywhere to begin with? A lack of empathy in daily life, just a simple form anesthesia. When you walk alone you can never have a peaceful moment again. You can describe the action and let your mental audience comment. You can describe the setting and provide the tone of the atmosphere to let other consciousnesses construct a narrative. You can recite the primary character’s inner thoughts verbatim and then allow the impression to come to the most likely conclusion, come what may. Some people just want another to sit silently there beside them so as to get a physical sense of security. Some people don’t what to change a single aspect of their own existences and are constantly plotting on how to resist the same. Other cling to their sanity by swimming upstream in the swift current of other people’s emotions as they overwhelm their own.
A dim bleary eyed besotted face rises from the drool pond of the table, “It’s Hickey!” “He’s arrived!” “Finally!”, “The Iceman Cometh!”
The popular media’s job is to dispel human loneliness with the daily illusion of an engaging conversation. Any victim is always eventually condemned for the fact of their disease or miscalculation leading to their eventual failure. Especially if they have risen too high and done too well. Two guys get waylaid on a schooner then share their adventures high in the rigging drunk as skunks. Most men have heroes generally in professional sports. Careers that they follow through the entire course of their own lives. The wilderness of night was thus consumed with such abstract mental wanderings.
It had been a bad night of constant drifting off and sudden waking. His left arm ached and he had to constantly jockey his position to suit the restlessness that its relentless discomfort demanded. Those sudden sharp shooting pains beneath the ribs. It seemed that a sinkhole had appeared in the middle of his chest. The waters of life did not seem to penetrate it. But the beer and the tequila did like a sharp arrow. He was too old now for frivolous bar stool adventures. The sunlight of morning seemed extra bright and demanding that he open his eyes to it. The sweat stained bed sheets clung tightly like stucco upon him. He rose checking the stagger to the bathroom marking if its source was the previous night’s drink or the inefficiency of his heart’s pumping. The steamy shower seemed to wash away much wreckage. The mirror being all too honest confirming yet again that not much was left of his sense of male vanity. The descent into old age had not been kind. All to the disappointment of youthful desires that refused to be quenched. His head slowly nodded in sympathetic agreement that there was nothing extraordinary or unfair in this. But extremely disappointing as he had disappointed himself by not taking better care having too quickly given in to well-worn self destructive habits. His mind refused to leave its endless wanderings in the flowery fields of youth.
Sylphs, fairies and ghostly mental images of all the women that he had once been attracted to in those bygone rituals of mating. Ceremonies that were no longer possible for him save to idly ponder in private. He closed the towel and then turned to the shapeless pile of his raiment’s discarded in a rumple just outside the bathroom door. A worn second skin of threadbare futilities. The renewal and replacement of each garment noted on a mental list to one day renew. A second skin to be renewed by in some small but significant way. His attentions diverted back to a longstanding mystery cloaking his mind’s eye to the constant sight of others. The incomprehensible experience of his arms encircling a young maiden as he had in decades past. A young woman’s body unwrapped and fully revealed in all its wonder a sight perpetually eternal in his thoughts. How many like it had he held in close embrace in eons past? Tried to understand, not with his mind, but with the antenna of his soul? Failed miserably with each to learn its secrets as to the reason for its being. His hands upon the small of a back delicately bowing it like a cello with restless fingertips. Each attempt to capture it defeated by the flash of an eye. Something ethereal int he descent of fingertips incrementally tracing the flatness of a hip declining inevitably into the curve of an inner thigh. Taut strings rubbed and plucked.
Life since had become laundered of such thoughts. He had his pile of well spent rags that served as snake skin remnants of his former self. The pursuit of youthful passions lost and now impossible. Absurd to consider! The waking dreams of old movies affording a slip from current dignity in the propriety observed in the conduct of one’s self. The world of now was filled with old compromises. Quick bargains made forgoing something considered so regular long ago but now cemented tightly shut and impenetrable. Pacts made in silence with unspecified entities that asked for nothing in specific but one knew were keeping a grim vigil. The inevitability of one’s genes as demonstrated by now long lost forebears offering only the conclusion of mortality. Perhaps sooner and not later? There in the street by a table in the imminence of the sun strung out like a line of beetles. Slow careful promenades of ancient brittle bones and arthritic joints supporting wrinkled skin and sagging bellies. all melting slowing and inevitably like candle wax left unattended in the wee hours of sleep. One awakening in the morning with a start to the spectacle of it’s decay. That moribund procession dirge-like slowly into the oblivion of the grave.
The last thing that I can do is to say that I am a failure. I can acknowledge my mistakes and misdeeds. But I cannot allow myself to not believe that tomorrow I can turn it all around. If I do I am dead. I am my families final chapter. They live within me. I am their history. Their entire lifetime all within me. Does it matter to the world? It matters not. They meant something, their lives and the dreams they instilled within me. I am their future as well as their past and I have gone fallow, Deep down within under the rubble of a life collapsed is the same little boy that would run to the comfort of his daddy’s arms to feel the love that was too quickly extinguished by the rueful circumstances of unstable life. In the end, I found much to our mutual regret that I had not cared as much for him as he did for me. At least not till he was past caring taken away by the inevitable natural cycle of birth and finally death. To late, my heart poured forth once again what it dare not admit while he was alive. Such was the great degree of my latent fear within. A fear that my sense of being in love would no longer be welcomed as an adult. A fear that I would have to surrender to the crushing mark of being a failed son. The one and only that could not outgrow his father long and ever widening shadow. In that I felt that I had truly failed. How could I not? He was a much greater man than ever I could have imagined. Than I found that I ever could be. Great because despite all the bad hands that he was dealt in life, he continued to persevere despite insurmountable odds. Angry sometimes? Sure! But never despairing always heading forward despite sheltering both my mother and I despite his own meandering inner flaws. No monument in my estimation could ever be built high enough to match his humble stature. A man who lived in the shadow of that larger than life personality that he himself created. Someone that despite how brash and brusque his unrefined manner appeared to me at the time would much later elicit posthumous comments of how that same demeanor would be sorely missed. Someone that many from all walks of life felt that they could call friend. This was the pattern that defines the direction of the weave of the cloth from which I am cut. My father. Someone that I so often regret the loss of and harbor that desire to be beside as I once was before. Just to reach up and find his warm hand holding my own yet again.