Post Cards sent myself from Hell, a childhood now celebrated and apprehended with joy. For those who remain ambivalent towards life itself. -121118 12:35 final
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One can never realize exactly how irrelevant we are until lost. Here I think of the Horror of Holidays; laughing of course.
Imagine yourself a child, not that it matters much, but perhaps a boy best between eight and twelve inside the gigantic tomb of Madison Square Garden, dark, fetid with sweat of others, farts and all, pressed cheek by jowl, the milling herd of behemoths rhubarbing senselessly, the secure handhold separated by swaying utters of elephantine thighs.
Who me? lost! I was lost upon birth from the placental sea of security and always know where I am. I’M HERE!
However, a sentiment mother never fully understood, and in terror shook me until my eyes rolled independent up one and down the other; Mix Master Kitchen Maid at full bore.
I cannot now remember whether it then, before or latter; my arm caught too small to trigger the subway train door closure alarm and I running beside it Buster Brown’s milling not frantic but swiftly retaining my stance until no longer able to keep up merely skating upon the leather heel and sole amused that mother mired in populace attempting to find the emergency switch my grin and silent laughter. Ending with my nose pressed again the once distant cold tile wall.
Say the word “Holiday” and my instinct is to seek shelter in the closet or beneath the bed until it goes away.
Once too long ago for most who read this to recognize the wonderful Mercury Coupe driven by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause--Red if I remember?--Dad’s was Midnight Blue. Janina and myself ensconced in the back seat. More nearly imprisoned. Our parents bicker and snarling at one another in the front on New Jersey’s Garden State Highway. Drunk or sober they shred their marriage daily but most dramatically upon Thanksgiving or Christmas Day.
Dark, cold, freezing rain, in outer orbit, shelter long lost far away. The Mercury stopped both leap out and I could not figure how to get my sister out from the rear. There are those moments when one realizes that, helpless, all is lost. Be calm in contemplation of kissing your ass goodbye. Some times death is a blessing.
Bin there, done that, have the decals and bumper stickers collected vicariously from all the tales told of their travels together. Roses conciliatory left in bidets. Terror nothing new to me ever . . . however I never was able to secure one of those baby alligators scrabbling about in a yellow window box; oh well.
Once not long ago, both antogonist dead and buried, my sister and I specualted upon this soon dark, for us, season. Noting that had they given just a smidgeon of love once in awhile the season itself may have made more sense.
. . . and to you, one and all, captive or free, I wish the best of Advent begun and Easter Tide soon arise.
121117 09:42 small
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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