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photo by Alan-Sailer1

Formerly I sought in all my wildest imaging, conclusively now, a blow-up party doll I could dismiss once through making love with. Yet as child and young man I fought the good fight seeking to make love possible for the women I loved: singular, several, not too many: no where near the letch I sound. A Cub Scout and was and remain actually.

But of course I say nothing new to those of us who pass beyond the magical number of, let us say forty-five plus years-of-age. The truism “that men never grow up” but merely large and old must in some way mirror others of similar gender. Given all that was impermissible to myself as male, and now without an iota of rationalization, I can say that the suffering was worth the now of me.

The first time was all the honeymoon we had. Neither realizing the consequence. I still wonder had I known would I do it again? Yes. Of course for I loved her and love her still though parted for more years then we were married. As for M, for the bride-of-my-youth or even Dick Chenney I’d lay aside my life until either they or I departed in death should need arise.

I love this aspect of myself as much as I love the boy and man who wanted to rut considering any woman in heat or not. Yet now as then I refuse to use anyone for self-gratification.

In time, too soon for me, she became not lover and friend but a mother who had no time for me as friend or man save for the two dimensional figure of a husband . . . possibly I should have, or in ideal time would, left/leave her with an Automatic Teller Machine with, of course, endless funds.

Obviously I speak in generalities since there was no dialog regarding the two dead children or the one who abandoned by us, in the throes of our other children dying, abandoned her.

Possibly I imagine myself as disposable, like the party-doll; and I am: birth, life, death in one fell swoop. Yet there remains these finest hours of all my life for which I can take no credit. And if nothing else keeps me muttering night and day it is a longing that you, not merely you dear reader who’s attention I appreciate greatly, but all who will never give their lives a second thought.

I am interested and very curious about the nature of prayer. At times sense this is my “Now I lay me down to sleep . . . “ With or without the provision should I not awake. If “faith” gives me peace I know not how to speak of it save to suggest that it is available to you without joining anything but yourself to the ebb and flow of life with all the slings, arrows and vicissitudes it brings. Into which I factor senseless rape, theft by the rich of our ability to gain a livelihood or sustain life after we retire; or merely the character assassination by them, the wealthy, the we have no right to exist save to serve their endless addiction to power and greed.

Laughing!

Dad used to tell me a story about Elizabethan theaters wherein the peasants used to stand in the orchestra while the Toffs urinated upon us from the balcony. And then, my bladder fit to bust from need to void and laughter, he’d close with; “I say Governor can you waffle it about?!”

Humor is all that keeps me from attempting the destruction of any and all conspicuous displays of wealth. Should I think myself noble I’d say it is God who keeps me from being insane. The Devil is ostentation. Or, should you be enslaved to a mortgage: the fine print. The details of your death warrant.

In my times of despair I imagine eating alive all the residents of a certain address on Park Avenue N.Y., N.Y.  That is in lieu of pinto beans. All that is left of a handsome retirement provided by my mother and stolen by politicians, bankers, stock manipulators and those who claim to have “earned” it living off the sweat of not just my brow but all of ours.

In truth it was a small price to pay for freedom from their snark.

I would have loathed dying while wondering what happened.

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© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved