Just now my kind neighbor - the farmer’s wife is rinsing my floor, and i am trying to act like nothing is happening · i’m very unaccustomed to other’s in my home, much less cleaning my dirt; oddly it is in everyone’s interest - she gains some currency during harder than usual times; the landlady gains the comfort of having her rental swept by one she knows along with periodic peaks at my curious lifestyle and i must acquiesce to someone doing me a kindness which is not my long suit - when i say kindness, i mean when was the last time someone brought you rice and vegetables when they came to clean your house. The good news is my temperature is very close to normal, my floors will be clean for another 2 or so weeks and i have contributed something to a community i find difficult to do good in (know that that feeling is entirely in my own mind and not based on external indications of failure).
This morning i found my normal bicycle shoreline circuit once again open after a momentary lockdown which with the pitch emotions of dodging viral particles with tobacco tuned windpipes does not inspire the deep sleep that engenders hard work and a cheerful face for the savagery that comes from species collapse, but these are not your problems, they are mine. I am attempting to rewire my mind to observe rather than react, and to open myself to the possibility that though my current existence does not include a “loving other,” there is a spirit seeking me as i seek her. That she might resemble the courageous cheerfulness of my friend The Farmer’s Wife, would please me to no end, though as never before i do not covet the company of she who has become my friend in the small hamlet i live. I simply accept that the qualities of my neighbors embody those native parts of my self such that the admiration i feel for my friends may aid me in winnowing a reasonable match for what i feel inside to be a good companion.
I have read that one should find those with which you have much in common: i add the lemon rinds from my daily ration of whiskey and beer to the skillet i sautee my rough-cut vegetables; i wash my body with a bristle brush from coconut fronds and rinse my body with apple cider vinegar; i do not own a phone and communicate mostly with characters i have known in person during my travels on a social media platform that is making clear daily its allegiance to a corporate putsch that is unfolding worldwide as i type - where am i to find a woman in common with such. And the only child i know of that was mine, was aborted by a model from a weeklong tryst without my knowledge or consent nearly 40 years ago - the two elder siblings in my family refused my friendship on fb, and the younger brother does not respond to email questions about his or his family’s wellbeing, i understand that is known as “estrangement.”
And still i believe, even at this late date, alone in a foreign nation that i will find a companion who will help me to understand those last lessons from my time here at University Earth. Not only learn the lessons but feel the sublime pleasure of a woman’s soft skin; so certain am i of this that though i have pisspoor dream recall i know that last night the vivid tactile memory of the softness of a woman’s skin literally hovered over my awareness only to surface just now in one of those events that gives credence to the concept of “synchronicity” whatever that may mean to you. To me, it is communing with those parts of my being that have been cauterized by too much “socialization,” too much ego and too little simplicity and love. And yet, even in so fragile an existence as mine, seemingly friendless and perhaps bent on self-destruction, the beauty of our world bubbles up like some mountain spring out of this mountain of life we cannot seem to stop climbing.
Nor should we, anymore than i, though i be aged and crusty, possibly toxic, should ever cease expecting a caress or deprive myself the opportunity of “copping a feel” or continuing to explore the sensuous richness of a vital dynamic emotional state however beaten i may feel each night i frighten myself to sleep wondering if the painful tension in my frame is from a growing tumor from living in a land laced with agent orange, or early exposure to the carcinogenic materials during my career building weapons for the “man,” of simply the arrogance of youth never believing that i could be taken down by something as pleasurable as “smoking and drinking,” yet compared to the quiet comfort i just witnessed of the farmer returning from his day’s labor is all i could ask for from this existence - he to his loved ones and they to his quiet courage is all there is for us in this lifetime and to aspire to more than that is to live in a delusional landscape devised by well-paid advertising execs who likely haven’t slept a peaceful night from the moment they devoted their energies to floating a fake dream with a fake ending to a people who simply want to love genuinely - go figure.
jts 21/08/2020he http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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