equivocal perversions

Equivocal to no one and nothing save the interlocutor. Who grades the roads within; scraping and plowing new ingress to my distress. 

“Had She Said Yes” wrote asking 'R U OK?' Chagrined. I discovered other interpretations of prior missives. At the time, after six hours of solitary nakedness, all creative juices roiling, I replied and now regret. What? My honesty? Sincere transparency laid bare.

No reply yet. Yet I am equivocal to the either way of it. Having learned, or was I convicted by experience to never announce a want or desire, especially towards a woman of obvious kindness and inferred trust. Do I not project upon others, the woman within me, with whom I cannot have congress. Consult oracles and flirt with cremation standing up crying eyes balls popping like grapes stepped upon.

What some call 'getting lucky' 'happy endings' or merely getting laid, is for me perilous since that time of castration at twelve by banishment irrevocable. That was The Big One all other traumas pale by compare. 

The dream just awoken from broke me down to the primary flaw: a wilting fern buried in a dark and fetid rain forest of grief. Anticipatory towards women. The switch mercurial between full stop and free flow; exactly what governs whether a seat beat holding you in securely, or allows you the freedom to scratch and itch on you ankle while driving; in most automobiles of recent vintage in America.

I love wandering the mirror maze within, wherein I allowed others to tell me who I was. Annotating each flight or fight, turning or turning inside out . . . do I mean self-betrayal? of course! And for all time thereafter questioning myself fleeing from the shoulds and oughts, the autopilot of culture: secular or sacred. The roads taken and those abandoned: choices.

They now seem, all relationships, to have been boxes full of marbles. But worse. Maracas shaken, cyclonic, in an Afro Cuban Jazz Band. I hear the screech trumpet going above St. Michael the phase and phrases just a few bars before my mind blows.

Sincerely were I able to describe the short circuit inside the circus of my mind you'd know what death is. Looking back and the strings and steams of words above I wonder if my desire, love or mere lust is more than any woman could ever handle; pardon me while I get the chopping knife to remove the source of my everything.

Laughter.

In childhood, well really nearly adolescence, I read H. L. Mencken's remarks about those who habituated the bleachers watching Baltimore Oriel baseball games. Claiming they should 'all be put to sleep like mad dogs.' And forever after, even now, I wonder should I not also join them in the final grand slam? The crack that launched a baseball into outer space winning history's eternal fame.

“Wonderboy flashed in the sun. It caught the sphere it was biggest. A noise like a twenty-one gun salute cracked the sky. There was a straining, ripping sound and a few drops of rain spattered to the ground somebody then shouted it was raining cats and dogs. By the time of Roy got in from second he was wading in water ankle deep.” -The Natural - Bernard Malamud

. . . read the book, oddly the bat "Wonderboy" was kept in a bassoon case!!??

There really is nothing so magical as inhabiting some sort of creativity—the cerebral orgasm of it. Not just once, and only, but the ongoing ecstasy of joy in it.

Why I laugh at the prices paid for Van Gogh these days or Stradivarius; to make such things is to touch God, the money paid is nothing but suffocation.

Then there are those times when I slump into the ordinary of my days. One, simply, cannot sustain a self on coffee, cigarettes and orgasms; or one long continuous orgasm riotous. My stomach rebels and desires coupling with lust carom and ricochet through my imagining and longings for a kind touch or embrace. Only ever really known with my grandmothers hand upon the back of my head.

My Achilles heel?

Kindness I mean.

In my near dotage there are only two women I have had such trust with. All prior remembered best for 'walking upon eggs' with me, while I was skating upon marbles with them!

I will go head-to-head with anyone or anything for a time, until it reaches that point best illustrated, for now or forever, by what it is said that Jesus said, “shake the dust off your sandals and move on.” Here and now I'm thinking the pearls cast before swine is me, little piggy oink oink. I refuse to use anyone as I was abused. Yet like a Samurai can kill without a second thought. Thus I am dangerous to myself understanding. . . .a Nazi and an Angel tussling throughout eternity. Leary of Saviors sensing we, not only I, must not trust the redemption/absolution to anyone. The bottom line regarding which prophet or wisdom figure I read is: That which I seek is inside--extant and inherent. Age has yet to make of me a castrato singing soprano. Add. I don't know how the Red Priest (Vivaldi) did it with all those nubile girls?! I am a fool but not so foolish as to claim redirection of my lust into words as he must have done with music; that divine language best speaking of all I seek.

An illustrative aside: The last time, before M, I was suicidal, I found a cat and loved him like nothing else in this world. And then moved in with a woman I presumed to be the ONE. He became jealous and peed on everything. A long time after this began, his marking everything, a thousand or more dollars spent on medication, etc. I gave up and had him put down; witnessing his death and the look he gave me in dying. I would rather knit a cobweb with my entrails, opening myself with a butter knife, instead of doing that to another life, now thinking of my daughter dying alone in custodial care.

At war with myself, in mortal/immortal combat, I resort to another woman I trust: Anais Nin; a great memoirist. Weaving in, via intuition, several other threads and streams addressing my conflict(s). The honest truth is that I give away my power, too easily, to women presuming them capable of making me not half, or enough, but whole. Only now occurring to me they in their turn may expect the same of me?

Given the opportunity several times in life, I stated, either published or implied; Savior your self. In the community of two, both being fully integrated making something else, greater, if not fabulous. Ideally yet by reality impossible to my quest. The only vessel, or chalice, I know capable of such passion is God. So regardless Ava Gardner, M or “Had She said Yes” I will remain celibate.

Celibacy like marriage is a renewable bond daily, if not minute by minute.

Besides which I am half way there; having only one testicle left and no prize when I had two.

Largely, all that I have ever asked for has been fulfilled experientially. 

Be true to yourself. 

- The Rolling Stones

“You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need”

- Aldous Huxley

"Chastity - the most unnatural of all the sexual perversions."

"Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what man does with what happens to him."

 . . . obviously, here, “man” applies equally to both genders. As in the whole commonweal, the entire family of our human kind.

- Paul Tournier

“Acceptance of one's life has nothing to do with resignation; it does not mean running away from the struggle. On the contrary, it means accepting it as it comes, with all the handicaps of heredity, of suffering, of psychological complexes and injustices.”

“Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.”

130426 14:30 MDT equivocal perversions

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved