Friends

Men seldom openly weep, but drown internally holding the flood in.

Yet I, a man, have wept gallons over the difference between marriage and friendship, now closeted in my solitary life. It is my dreams that better inform me of the conflict -- ASTONISHING!

Irrelevant, the details and story that hurled me from rest two or so hours ago. Which led me to remember the difference between our ages and intentions. No story teller am I but an observer of the river of time; inconsequential by height, width, breadth or length, but merely that it is at all moving. It hurt nothing that she, being younger than me, inspired lust filled thoughts, but then being a nurse I came to understand her better as a person than a receptacle of my salaciousness.

Embodying those things I’d never known, joy for example, trust for another, but oh God! forgive me for admiring her posterior when she knelt to a patients eye level. And now, two thousand miles apart, remembering my involuntary ejaculation; “Take me with you!” We still communicate and I think more than often of her - there - while I remain here and she growing the requisite roots to sustain and flourish her life. Suffice to say that it is well. I care more for her than my gratification. I am odd that way. And wonder now that, when mother castrated me with her inarticulate accusation of incest, that she didn't do me an enormous favor.

Celibacy having been a long inconceivable dedication . . . even now the ability wanes while the desire remains.

Lust is just another addiction, compelling, scratching and itch: pleasure but no lasting joy. And I, no idle boast, care more for the soul than the body to so use another for my convenience. Yet even now, betimes, take pleasure in the thought. Naughty boy that I was, am and remain for all time . . . poor Ava Gardner naked upon my threshold spanked with a keyboard; “NOT NOW!”

Laughter! My greatest gift!

Not odd, the many men of my generation who leer when I mention her name. Yet I, for one, am more taken by her charisma, the laughing soul within, playful beyond the gratification. But as I, so with them, the men of my time; do not leer so much as grin; our ability waning.

Finally and fatefully drown, I know the consequence beyond orgasm; a greater wealth than I can tell . . . at least for now.

. . . yes, splayed, stapled, twitching upon the dissecting board; vivisection of my Self.

. . . a boy named Ruth, not ruthless

“There is no fire like lust;

 there is no grip like hatred;

 there is no net like delusion;

 there is no river like craving.”

—  Dhammapada

130327 04:42 Friends

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