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.
The last two decades of life have proven to me that I have lost a lot of my own long held naivete about what are now considered foolish notions. I have lost the magical ability to feel any sense of desire for current examples of contemporary women both old or young. Not that it matters to them at all as I know that all women in our time are perfectly happy that the tyrannical yoke of unwanted male interest in them has been lifted from their shoulders and now is permanently erased! Thank god that men can universally embrace their feminine side of demonstrating quiet passivity in public while women may freely strut around exercising their long suppressed aggressive inner nature’s at will without any dominant male society interference or censure. Misguided males have been institutionally exiled to watching dated mental masturbatorial Hollywood epics of women indentured by romance provided by men that only possesses an inherent ‘macho’ male paternal sensibility. The exterior world run be the strict rules of mentally inscribed institutionally governed and workplace enforced principles of dominant feminism.
Of course, this is not the type of world that has any attraction for me! That is totally my own flaw of advancing chronological age. A flaw akin to a previous penchant of being charmed in a way that only women from a long ago bygone detestable era could be. Charmed by the misguided virtues of inherent their care taken in sensual appearance supporting a flirtatious nature equal in overt interest in the other gender. One that inspired the rougher sex to bring flowers or open car doors or show up expecting a frequent unoccasioned kiss might fire up the emotions of that desirable female that fell prey to making him the center of her world. That bygone sense of natural symbiosis when, bereft of lurking LBGT Disney Corporation modern fairy tales, Prince Charming’s courted icy Snow Whites bringing life back to them with a simple passionate heartfelt kiss. Foreign Legion bound Gary Cooper’s could not erase dispossessed French cabaret singers who then might follow them across the burning desert sands in bare feet. All the old poppycock that took away from one’s future haigh paying job or career independence. And saw some men portrayed in the cinema as only wanting the lasting gift of once more wearing a pair of golden earrings to share their remaining lives with smelly unwashed Gypsy maidens as half ‘gadsi’. Foolish notions indeed!
Most contemporary women are unburdened by the lost art of attracting men, of course. Thank god it only now involves dressing up like once was referred to as a slut to ply easy drinks from the exemplary broad shouldered tight abbed man of their choice at the local bar. Ones from recent generations having been properly schooled in the preparatory scholastic environments of childhoods spent in daycare environments with ever commanding Politically Correct female ‘minders’ provided as surrogate ‘mothers’. The fathers far removed living distant from the singular parented household by some pivotal point in time as a lasting lesson that male female relationships were never meant to be permanent only convenient. All this while their saintly mothers enrapture daily existence with the fact of the burden of them them making the unimaginable sacrifice in somehow maintaining both career and motherhood. Young boys growing up properly mannered to understand that they are not important as their own female siblings in a world that values only the promotion of a form of diversity that does not include them or any of their ‘amle’ aspirations. Young men being so much happier now that any impediment to sexual gratification need not be burdened by anything more than demonstrating being handy to a desirable woman or readily available when it is time to pay the check. And of course, when the whim for intimacy strikes their female companion being amenable to the guidelines of sexual satisfaction that favor her. Things are so much better now than in those dark times of before when both sexes never were sure of where they stood in the thoughts of another! When they had to take the risk of exposing their true feelings in hope of some mutuality of life purpose that was not so easily reckoned or accountable to future security. Charles Dickens might have cast his darker tales like Oliver Twist or Great Expectations in a more favorable light if those times had been as equally enlightened as things are today. How far we have all come!
It has been a very long time since I have gone out to see a new movie. in some ways this is not extraordinary in itself. But in others very much a statement of my core disenchantment with the current mentality of Hollywood that has shifted their mission from escapist entertainment directly into the realm of politics through cinematic artifice. Often becoming more that a less than subtle form of popular brainwashing. That alone has made my former pastime of watching a new film an loathsome exercise in sorting out banalities of purloined plot devices rehashed into sequel based pomposities over-layered by mind numbing visuals complimented by overbearing overly dramatic audio ‘klang‘. Going into modern multiplex auditoriums defaulted to real time mental detoxification during commercial messages sponsoring the hall through to the roll of final credits. I have come to favor certain measures for self-defense such as closing my eyes and analyzing sounds and positions on the 5 to 1 audio. But that of course leaves me open the possible devastation by main feature of my inner political fabric. Being of the now popularly despised class of ‘old white male‘ as irredeemable useless wino’s that all the dark powers of the media seem allied to demote and destroy, I know which side of the toast my own interests receive the ‘butter’. Given the everyday plot standard of the young white spoiled underachieving middle class girl as ultimate hero, I surrender all hope as I enter the auditorium to see the Sci-fi franchise that mightily launched that heresy and meet its make, Ridley Scott.
If power corrupts then the power of being a singular director whose films collectively gross big corrupts absolutely. It would of course be foolish to suppose that all within this universe answer to a much whispered but decidedly anonymous deity. But that is something that within the larger international film community is not acknowledged on pain of instant oblivion not unlike being chucked out of an airlock in deep space never to be seen or heard from again. Ridley Scott and his late brother Tony, made their bones with well-metered sophisticated plots and productions that in the former sense of same suggested that well-used gambit of suggesting some great unsolvable philosophical dilemma that the audience is invariably power with in the last moments of the film’s final conclusion. Though his late brother Tony generally stayed back on ‘terra firma‘, Ridley Scott continuously mentoring generations of would be scholars of cinematic borne epistemology with an unanswerable question of ‘what if‘ then answering it within the context of the next sequel with the negative least desirable conclusion as to the final disposition of his starring avatar. If you consider that most of his popular hero’s have been heroines it doesn’t suggest a very positive attitude about women and their inbred quirks by him? Each of his films seem to be generously funded by the standards of the era and the content of each production being under his absolute direct control. Nothing in his films cannot be accused of being accidental or unintentionally bungled by virtue of lack of funding by the conglomerates who fund them. What you get is a treatise for those that feel themselves sufficiently erudite and vague uneasy assent for the rest of us popcorn cruncher’s. So what indeed does one find with the inference of the latest chapter of his ongoing masterwork plotting ‘Gotterdammerung‘ in the twilight of the gods?
Let us start with the most favorite topic of all Jewish movie producers on this planet, the well-traveled perpetual animus towards 20th century Germany in all her transformations. Now of course this inbred genetic antagonism extended to anything descended from the Christian breeding Indo-European stock. Consider that his loathsome competitor, Ingmar Bergman, made more lastingly unsettling movies on much smaller budgets all without those monumental spectacular explosions and the insipid vertigo of roller coaster CGI effects, one might consider Ridley philosophically ersatz. But that would automatically preclude the viewer from what is usually an exquisitely handcrafted work of perfectly ambled cinematic art. Something only less than a handful of other directorial genius’s are well-connected enough to pull off. The message therefore is generally more vague and haunting rather than purposely explicit. Compare the storytelling of the very popular James Cameron that steams ahead hitting the icebergs perfectly on cue while expertly tugging at the emotions in every possible way. Ridley Scott has to have a pretext lurking about in semi-obscurity down darkened corridors where other directors merely need a well-lit backdrop to launch their characters into action. The ghostly ‘ubermenschen‘ of Nietsche are finally revealed and destroyed by the genetically superior mechanical outsider evidencing the threat of one’s servant beaching their worst enemy through the usual Shakespearean conduit of unexpected betrayal. Where the monsters of old from Scott the director’s stilted universe engage in hellish assimilation genetically overwhelming all the players pitting themselves against their next best worse self, he saves the last best tidbit for special consideration. The de-evolved species known as modern woman which is not longer capable of giving birth in a normal sense of producing a family or the continued procreation of her own species beam part of a social experiment that only a Malthus could love. The perfect heroine no longer a Valkyrie come down from the heavens to conduct fallen warriors from their expended bravery upon the battlefield but an equally soulless and sterile in a humanitarian sense as her monstrous opponents. Something functionally indifferent and useless to her own species.
The plot of the latest tale less than sings as it plods through fuck-up after fuck-up that any pre-adolescent newly introduced to, “Call of Duty“, would be unlikely to fall victim to. Since everything upon the table presented has the inference of some higher purpose in the suggestion of a tapestry of ideas in the ‘great master’s mind, one can only infer that the ship’s crew are as a foil for most of regular humanity are simply that. Brainless morons that couldn’t save themselves from having their I-Phone heisted within ten minutes of being upon a ghetto street! The only saving grace from serial yawning in the dark being the timing and savagery of very violently pornographic imagery. Inside torn out, severed heads floating dull eyed in ponds and an occasional expose ‘mons Venus‘ tickled before its own is impaled. Such is the virtual satisfaction that the crowd within the mental amphitheater of this cinematic Coliseum is enjoined to savor. All this while the sneaking little synthetic human ‘doppelganger‘ recites some juvenile recitation of best music hall hits of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The James Bond franchise was more adept and purposefully crass at this vaudeville staged art form. Of course here in Ridley-land one is to be subject to scorn of possible snickers if they do not see some deeper unexplored hidden universal meaning! All the while the heavy handed plot bombs that were originally buried like nuts for the winter by demented squirrels are pulled out the usual dusty old Hollywood hat of three act, two plot point transition, surprise them in the end with the big twist at the conclusion story finale. Ho hum! So what if the bad robot winds? So what if the analogy is directly attributable to the wet dreams and supposed hopes for an elitist Utopia by the film’s major financiers? So what if the ultimate story can intimate the obvious conclusion of this current society that is now out of balance descending into a final fatal dystopia? Or Not! The core issue in my mind is GODDAMMIT! Am I going to being entertained, or not???????
Stay tuned for the next seven years for the next sequel when you will ultimately learn what happened in these regard for the next installment of “Alien Something Or Another!“
Emotional exhaustion . . . animal constipation
you say things are good
what you have to say isn’t far behind, but . . .
. . . you know it’s not.
memory no longer serves . . .
because it doesn’t dare
because all the good days are gone
and it’s just you
and are you up to making new days?
it doesn’t seem like it
So what happens?
the house falls in
you go two or three floors down into the basement
and you wait to die!
It comes down to the fact that you lost
you lost the game
‘un sujet d’mort’
it’s the only topic that you know now
End, . . . the barrier, the border, the hallway
the walk goes on
but only has one inevitable course
it’s a little pompous, I know
but . . . it is inevitable
you look into chaos and provide a rational explanation for everything
and then turn around and pat yourself on the back
because now you say you know everything
certainly about what you just made a pronouncement about
But then you forget when you’ve realize that your life is droll
the same boring tedious
you forget that that part of the chaos that you dismissed is where the magic happens
and now you are too far away to get back to that part
because it is chaos
and it’s moved on
but you haven’t!
when farting becomes more passionate than sex
the relief of discomfort becomes more important than pleasure
Short . . . short but necessary thoughts
for the prolongment of life
pick yourself up, put things back
the way they should be
move on . . . try to find love again
as imperfect as that might be
Try to find some sanity by having some human feelings again
not just . . . explain away the doubt
that would be a start
of finding a reason of still wanting to still be alive
take these things seriously
instead of just saying that is what it comes down to
do it, or don’t
that’s how it is . . .
We all may be prisoners of our own reality, hence on so many occasions, boredom. I for myself now so many years later past a more active life of the comings and goings of others. The fringes of society more often my stamping grounds as it has been for he introductory decade to that indecisive period known as ‘middle age’. These circumstances do not come about simply as a matter of an accident occurred in the moment but as part of a gradual wearing down process based upon events that in hindsight seem to stack up like a row of dominoes. A child’s game that seems in the mirror of that thing called habit to line up into a continuity of encounters that one’s own personality controls almost unconsciously, but not quite. The memory of the open burner of the stove or the paperclip near grooves of the electrical socket are never to far from conscious thought.
Long tedious days fraught with monumental aggravations tends to make one take the course of a quiet evening before the television hopefully before an old movie whose scenario is far removed from your own. Take the fantastic nature of the plot of Hitchcock’s, “Rebecca” with its intervening layers of different genres of gothic romance, psychological drama and offbeat romance. A vehicle that in my own case brings sleep to the eyes somewhat rapidly yet continuously engages the mind in cotton like drifting borders of somewhat awake to partially asleep. It is somewhere within, that one experiences both present and past in a concoction that is oft reshuffled. Transported to like same situations where characters from the past long gone still linger as vital and real as if they still existed on a daily basis in waking reality. The movie droning on in my ears as the location of my bedstead changed to the possibility of three separate locations from the dusty kingsized legacy of dead parents to an air mattress on the living room floor of the parents of an early childhood friend overlapping the decor of the couch in an old tired ranch house family addition from a now estranged girlfriend. The narrator’s voice droning on throughout. My laggardly thought process in parallel to it as one would expect in a movies auditorium exercised in whispers between crunch of popcorn kernels. This lace tying together the various eyelet holes so that conversation of both movie and inner dialogue become simpatico and part of other odd dramas cooked up by the id using all these stated puzzle pieces.
The blue glow of the television flickering in the barely lit living room of someone else’s house providing hospitality on the knife’s edge of acceptance. A husband coming home decades later to find the grown up version of their son’s childhood friend sleeping in their house with the wife in the kitchen being a nervous proposition for all. The corollary reminding one of their own past foolishness in dating a Persian girl who in the light of recall had some perverse fetishes that required the peril of discovery. Something that for her in the new land of the USA unlike back home in her religiously intolerant land shinning female desire required such things. The taste of the lash upon ones unprotected skin during intimacy from that point forward becoming a necessary ingredient in their sensuality. Discovery by family members of her engaged naked in coitus mere inches within the shadows from an open door of her bedroom being her kick. For those as aged as myself the alternate being equally problematic as doing the nasty in the front seat of a parking lot late at night physically too challenging to inspire much ardor. I have to suppose that the sex lives of the male preying mantis or their fellow male black widow spiders are charged with an exceptional degree of orgasmic enthusiasm followed by the inevitable fatal cynicism? The dimly illuminated vision resident in the hollow less occasioned spaces of my mind of my partner’s less charming orifices demanding service still lurking like the mandibles of a much larger and voracious carnivorous insect lover.
There is no rest it seems in a life fueled by such visions of the past now matter how nervously reawakened the loins may be charged with by this sort of experience. The mismatch of what one expects from either side of what the consider conventional determining the viability of the relationship. In my own case, those kinks of being interrupted by old jilted spouses or irate Muslim family members brandishing sharpened kitchen cutlery just not my thing. My own sort of excitement in the bedroom disappointedly being too Episcopalian or Methodist these days. Yet as mentioned the mind can wander. We are all animals after all. Long after the possibility of the fit excuse of further procreation we are driven on to consider the repetition of the ritual without any realistic hope of biological success. Another form of mental construct of ongoing recreational fantasy that all hold so dear of that bygone yesteryear, I suppose?
Grab those perky little breasts and make them happy
grasp my little heart within them and make it sad
make a grab for my ass and I’ll have to say goodnight
because it’s over as it’s been over before it began
I’m sorry but it’s just that way and can be no other
for those who don’t know what they want
and all those others that know it all too well
whatever you want it’s too much yet too little
to take those old hands from the dusty vaults
of dirty long forgotten single men’s hotels
it’s the night of the cougar in that little tiny package
don’t let her fool you she’ll tear you apart with her youth
she’ll penetrate your armor and confuse your amour
that waiting destiny that you cannot avoid
when you put your hands upon her
the old peg is whispering about a chaming place
about a fabled week of laughter and fun
in the mind but whose would one require
something built in the mind but not the heart
that fatal embrace that you dare not imagine
could you be any less subtle with this affair
something that can bring no life to anyone
an affair of the mind for sure but maybe not
maybe an episode in the barn with the cow
that special cold wet feeling after the fact
when will this be over when will this be done
cliche after cliche of laughter and fun unsung
“I miss you but I cannot bear a life without”
the kitty is hungry it has become a total rout
giving into my passion without a single shout
your hands reposed they feel so cold now
without unreasonable fervor of a frivolous before
how could I ever misunderstood those intentions
but it will have to wait to another time
such are the affairs of a wayward heart
what kind of man are you she said
a lot can happen in a couple of months
her flesh having turned to marble or to stone
the kitty from before having turned into a cat
something that anyone would not want
so we all go back to that first moment
it will never fade away stupid of me really
to think that the moment mattered that much
so many things in life inappropriate like desire
what can one say but to wash it all away
it’s all in your hands now to make some magic
something to cherish and look forward to
a new beginning beyond the memory of the old
all fatal memories aside and put to rest
to know that it is me that you really desire
the old smell of grass routine that new mown hay
the words to sur the passion to get things under way
those perky young udders that tearfully happy smile
those former unspoken vows renewed again
how those old hands renewed have plowed
forever is a start for the beginning of this day
the unwinding of the legend the real me you see
the revealing of a short man in little short sleeves
just another face along the way of a simple tragedy
all those lost moments I never had you inspire in me
now I see the real you beneath those nice fat legs
care and kindness like I have never known before
things would never be the same the old hotel awaits
I can never see you again in the way I first intended
but as eternal in my heart as I have never loved before
she got me with the speargun kept me hanging like a fish
there was no longer any place to run to no other kind of wish
those old trembling hands of mine now chastened by it
I dare not hope to be alone to my sad regret and horror
I was her animal alone now as I’d never been before
But now the rain had gone and the streets were dry
and there were no more tears on her part to shed
I was like that same cold piece of marbled stone
it was a permanent exile back to the same old hotel
after all it was time for those old illusions to die
you treated me badly and just wanted to get revenge
there is no regard left for you no hope to fail your friends
I held me dead love in my arms for the final point in time
it was all so strange a mystery how such longings go awry
just back and forth with no escape from the penalty of life
so life’s a scarlet letter where overworn intentions go awry
cursed with inopportune insinuations the import of which are nie
you end up with the solitary self as all others must also see
the misery shared by all soner or later this errant sense of love
all others the same save for now and then back to normal in the end
There are many fables passed along through the millennia to our current centuries of certain conundrums that are insoluble yet pressing to the relations that all humans as a species suffer. Some make sense in a geographical sort of way as the need to nest with one’s polar opposite with the coming Spring each year. Some offered at dinner table debates as with the topic of the time at which the hunter gatherer turned agrarian. Or in cloister of ones’ man cave after dinner when the ‘better half‘ of the sexes split up for a more earnest transfer of detailed information the men sit cigar and brandy bound to ponder tall tales of their exploits teasing about the details of mankind’s oldest profession. To this end I am reminded of an incident of the mind within which both I and my best most trustworthy alter ego found ourselves in contradictory situation over the male foible for the soothing of that pernicious ever-present call for satisfaction of the loins. Pertaining of course to the equally ever-dangerous practice of looking a little too lovingly at the grass next door as it seems to grow in the territory of one’s closest neighbor. How much has been written of such regrettable situation since noble blind Homer stumbled across such hi-jinks two and a half millennia preceding? In the case of my own less epic history this failing being happily engaged in by my fellow. The two plus two of it posed lingering in my mind upon a particularly inhospitable night’s sup. One at which both he and his stunning paramour were joined for the evening by myself and a newly discovered companion. The two women at my table were distantly familiar with each other as acquaintances at work. And as such congenial to the max but ever safely distant in their relative spheres of emotional influence. The workmate of my friend’s soulmate equally lush and brunette though free spirited in a manner knowing few boundaries of the kind that oat sowing males are particularly fond of. The nature of the evening spent inhabiting a four spot of a local watering hole that provided relief from the relentless downpour outside. The hours wearing on in safety from the external deluge ultimately leading to a marathon convivial drinking by all of safely removed from its wrath. As bodily tolerance for such bouts of imbibing both body and spirit of John Barleycorn was in my own case ever stretched thin I found myself making excuses for the necessity of an early departure. A short task to ferry each to their own dry destinations.
It was very early morning after being physically sequestered in alcoholic stupor when I awoke much later in my corner of his two bedroom apartment to find him in a tizzy reeling dreamily about the bedroom running back ad forth by himself at a dizzying pace. He busily set about making adjustments rumpling a bed and planting other evidences suggesting his recent habitation. My inference of this odd behavior leading me to believe that his long enfranchised ‘steady’ would be bereft by way of this vitally physical documentation of his recent absence. It was difficult for me to comprehend the necessity of all these actions? That was until he let slip that the very same brunette that had spent the night across the table from us had unexpectedly expressed an interest in no uncertain terms conveying that she had taken a special liking for him. My sense of connection to this particular woman being somewhat hazy and now problematic I found myself taken aback by his demonstration of an unfettered willingness to engage in such a gambit? Something that I would have naturally assumed he would be fully aware would ultimately turn out to become fatal to the future of his primary relationship? As such I found myself upon his bed in the dilemma of who to side with in what would inevitably be an irrevocable conflict when his prime arrived. There is something of that classic mentality shared by both man and canine who despite the inability to express commiseration in a common tongue with both knowing that they have been guilty of having committed some unforgivable transgression. Something that connected to a similar power held by the female of the species in a particularly characteristic ability to detect such infidelities. Though my companion seemed more in the moment and oblivious of I found myself suffering this weighty dilemma on his behalf. The more that he frivolously bounced about the room replacing burned out light bulbs and strewing his clothing about creating the illusion that he had remained there uninterrupted since his arrival home, the more grief struck I became. What would I tell her when she would cast the first stony look in his direction signifying with unearthly gravity that she knew? She knew!
Yet from this universe of guile came rushing an absurd notion! Something that had not initially occurred within the confines of my own scattered brain stem. Something that the lizard brain portion currently enervating my friend into this waiting harbor of hurt would be incapable of realizing. A perception of reality that up to this point had not transpired for either of us. But was now so suddenly crystal clear. I picked up my face off the bed to look up around the room. My heart pounding as if I had been engaged within the rigors of an intense bout of extremely taxing exercise. There was now no hint of my fraternal friend now turned nemesis. The confusion about the room wrought by his mischief seemed inexplicably familiar. The pair of pants laying rumpled beside the bed. The shirt tossed over the chair in the corner. THEY WERE MY OWN! I startled when I began to realize like puzzled pieces falling backwards in empty space presciently into a proper solution. A blinding flash ignited my brain as I heard the hinges of the bedroom door swing open and I spun about as if caught in the cross hairs of some final fatal danger. For an instant the face of the brunette flashed across the face of the blonde before the doorway. The blinding vision of a goddess of desire of a type that so many better men before me had fallen before all throughout history. I stood there presenting a comic sight in boxers and T before her as an expectant smile formed upon her face undiminished. She walked up to me with an unexpected confidence of a she lion that was completely arresting. “Darling!“, she smiled as her arms slid around me to pull me into her embrace. “I’m so sorry I made you wait up for me so long but I had to drive Betty home after I dropped you off.” She took a step forward and I heard her purse drop hard upon the floorboards. My conscious mind reeled as I gazed deeply into her twin blue pools of dead earnestness. “What in the Hell was I thinking?“, I thought. “It was so nice that the three of us had the opportunity to get together for dinner this evening!“, she cooed. She now staring deeply into my eyes with a convincing innocence as females often do when they poke and probe for the proper most expected response. “No, no!“, I replied with an unexpected sense of earnestness behind my voice. “It is so much nicer though that it is only just the two of us alone now!” I settled back into the magic of the moment of mutually shared ecstasy of two loving animal embracing. Realization come to fruition that my ‘friend’ had after all been simply been a manifestation of my own very pernicious dream.