Scarcely do I at times know myself; who or why. It is as though looking for footwear, finding only the left flip-flop or Crock, then wondering why Annie likes my rubber shoes; all her teeth marks on the left and few to almost none on the right.
Then I dressed lurching blest that I'd remembered my 'going out-of-doors-shorts' disheveled orangutan hair unshaved to pay the rent; last day tomorrow; then in consequence attention of the now assistant-property manager. Whose attentions have cost me so much; that were I to die to escape his authority I would consider it a blessing.
Depending upon the sincerity of the observer; I look ten to twenty years younger than I am. Of men I never ask but of women near always. Then following on with; "Do you like older men?" Leering.
Factually there is only one woman in whose embrace would I find any peace. I'm having lunch with her meaning M today having set the submarine dive klaxon to awaken me should I nod off prematurely. . . .
. . . May I, or should I, forget my anger towards Bill Gates? Instead of killing him, merely suggest that someone -- after all he is the richest man in the world -- concoct a key command that would reverse two letters; my most frequent typo. That's what I adored about Word Star word processing software and company he submerged in bankruptcy.
Not not intended -- this endorsement: Jarte is what I use everyday to write with and I love it; my love affair enhanced if only it had Word Star's key commands enabling me to never leave the keyboard; meaning no mouse at all required. A free version is available on the net.
As I crossed the parking lot traveling the block or so towards the check drop in the rising sun there was a neighbor I know but not well. He was carrying a bass guitar, Latino but his English is more than adequate. I asked him is it "buenos dias" or "buenos noches" = 'Good Morning' or 'Good Night' since I want to be one of them, my neighbors . . . had I the time I'd study not Spanish; but "Spanglish" . . . I love my neighbors and wish to be able to better communicate with them; that is until the then property manger (a Gringo or Anglo, like me) -- the initiator of monthly "home invasions" . . . the women hide their wash, especially undergarments and other things they fear being evicted for, A torment and torture for us all. I ceased to participate in any functions he might attend; including the distribution of free charity food -- I live in poverty. In consequence of my new absence my neighbors, mostly women, asked me why whenever I ventured our during daylight hours.
Federal Law mandates semi or annual inspections.
This is the warp and woof; a mini tapestry of my ordinary life here in the Boarder Lands between Mexico and New Mexico aka Mexico and The United States.
The man carrying a bass guitar is named Benny or Ben, I knew that, but had to reorient my attention to recall it. What ensued, simply, blew me away and apart. I am able to sight read on between nine and eighteen different musical instrument unable to name the key of the music or the various Italian emphasis words but know which key or fret to press playing/performing the music. Which is one of the only bequest my father gave me. Though he never interceded between mother and myself while she beat, kicked, threw me out-of-doors naked, he taught me to fix, repair, rebuild musical instruments. All except keyboards: piano or organs. Benny tunes pianos, is a lay preacher and now a friend. Who in this brief encounter reminded me of the only real peace at the behest of my dad; while fixing musical instruments I went away into my head and there discovered a host of things, actual blessings, that he would deny me otherwise. Though he called when dying and was otherwise a friend with no benefits: any part of his estate that I in, slave labor, minimum wage; to the extent of; when married with child we had to look seventy five miles distant to find a home we could afford.
I, like Mom, was subject to his intentions and destinations; taken to places he wanted to go. That plus furs and cars were mother's only payment for 24/7/365 care taking his dependencies including bookkeeping for the family business.
I loved and still love them both now forgiven and not forgotten.
As a male I am shy to proclaim myself a man, much less a musician, painter, draftsman, wannabe priest, photographer, writer/author/poet since I remain in exponential awe of those who do so much better than I could ever dream of becoming. They are the artist and I merely the audience. Perchance a good one; as I am of God. Possibly my only claim to talent or genius knowing God as real.
As a man I've become less shy and/or isolated from friends I trust, few and precious to me. I now belong to a community in the more than loose abuse of the term; in that I while volunteering at hospice know more than the dying. I know their friends, their spouses, siblings, children. All before and after the soul departs and know some better long after their bereavement commences . . . in some small way embracing their grief; a topic I know too well.
I tend to trust women for they give me the straight skinny about everything. While men tend to beat about the bush, so to say (pun intended?!) Males tend to talk about, or to, issues; seldom creatively, regarding what they will live and die for above and beyond the cult of Patriotism; in the bumper sticker sense. Like my cute nursery rhyme name, chanted, I tend to ignore those who use common and obvious phrases regarding anything.
I can be and am charming, capable of scintillating conversation on/of/about/regarding an astonishing variety of topics. That describes not dependence but a persona who knows how to meld with and manipulate a crowd. I am not extrovert, at least to my degree, considerable, of understanding the implications and clinical definitions. Meaning, to me, that I derive no energy from the activity and merely used the ability to gain access to one President, a King and his family, Senators & Representatives and any number of hostile subjects I was assigned to photograph and an overwhelming number of excellent artists/celebrities in their vocation of choice.
Now that I am redundant and awaiting death to be replaced by the next generation; or merely retired. Left to my own devises I seek solitude. Only knowing myself a solitary though the generous gift of M, an expert forensic psychologist, who being a solitary herself would, reasonably, distrust, or at least be suspicious of my request for a kiss; much less laying within her embrace like two kittens in a pile of comforters innocent.
The day after tomorrow I will learn if I have cancer rampantly spreading thr0ughout my body. She is facing the same issue.
Coincident?!
I love this woman, the only one I've ever completely trusted. Should she request that I stab myself in any part of myself: eyes, heart or groin -- with an ice pick she handed to me -- I might briefly think about it. Or like the Sufi's say of the 'Devil,' a fallen angel, who in conversation heard, "Be Gone," left now residing in Hell. Eternally loving the last words of God to him.
Then do it.
She is that near and dear nearly so as to God to me.
It is she who said I could heal, curious three years later I asked who, why, how, when or so my thoughts were flowing; to which she replied; "you will," simply.
I write inappropriately using slang and my personal life (self-knowledge as in "Know Thy Self") as an example of what healed me.
Her.
Obviously.
Yet in resurrecting me from my tomb of depression, anger, despair; akin to Arthur with drawing the sword from stone; the once-and-future-king is within me; this sovereign kingdom of one -- of no consequence least my paltry talents enable another to cease from suicidal ideation.
In short what I'm about is far better said by Rumi:
"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."
Amen.
120904 06:42 estrangement
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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