The thing i’m finding about literature from sitting on the other side of the equation - writing vs reading · there are a lot more “painter’s corners”, my last wife painted houses for celebrities, and so i know what it is to not have a well-planned escape route, euphemistically known as a “painter’s corner”. With reading, one can always simply put the book down, when writing one almost needs to bite off the trapped limb, lest it become the end of the story. Though i write mostly “non-fiction,” there are so many intersections in my vignettes between “fantasy” and fact that the two are nearly indecipherable. This asserted truth is mostly because i doubt my memory more and more and question my interior more and more - both i believe to be assets in any search for “TRUTH”. What i particularly enjoyed about my study of mathematics is the logic - kind of like a piano falling from the 5th floor · either it lands, or it doesn’t · hope does not factor into the equation.
I do not possess a mathematical mind and could not truly enjoy the process like i could puzzling the facets of a painting or drawing into focus. It wasn’t until many years after i had devoted my being to following the trails left by masters: Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Michelangelo, Rodin, Dürer, Paul Cézanne, et al i had to acknowledge a visual anomaly effectively partitioned me from anything but an intellectual appreciation of their work. I cannot emulate what i cannot see. I’m sure there are reasons for this challenge, but at 65 turning 66 what they are, eludes me - kind of like all the pretty young girls (now aging women) on my block · That is more their problem than mine, i’m way past the point of tolerating being tolerated. I had an emergency appendectomy 5 April 2005 - my last wife left me 12 April 2005 · i ran the Los Angeles Marathon 18 March 2006, i’m still having fun; and i’m pretty sure she is still blaming the world for ______fill in blank.
Yes, i accept that is not the kindliest endorsement of a fellow human being - she really was, and likely still is doing her best, i’m sure. It’s just that the best for some people just doesn’t rise to the threshold of interest for me any longer. This may be due to my having to reassess my own “best” effort, only to find myself, lacking, or it may be that i still search for one who holds love and pleasure high on her list of ambitions in a world where so many “wannabe” companions are still clinging to their _______fill in the blank. Cowardice is not a gender specific trait, and as much as i can admire and respect my mother for the choices that she made to survive, that doesn’t mean i am honor bound to repeat her two husband’s mistakes. Let me rephrase that - i did not, do not, nor now know what my mother conceives of as Love · not because i wasn’t listening or paying attention with the whole of my soul but because i believe in my heart of hearts that she does not know herself.
She is my mother and i love her; however she guided my family into a quest for riches - a lack that i honestly believe she thought had deprived her of a “decent childhood” and a “worthwhile marriage” to my father. How do i reconcile such emotions¿ do i again seek a companion that does not appreciate what she has, rather one who seeks? Is that so bad to want better for your lot and those whose lives who are entrusted to your judgement, what is the truth - my father who loved words and believed in his misbegotten way that fun and pleasure were worthwhile ambitions in a civilization whose objectives grew more suspect daily . .. am i a “chauvinist” to have more solidarity with my father than my mother. In our later discussions, Pop’s tongue was loosed due to dementia and would simply divulge to his mind her truth “she is a victim.” Is that such a bad thing, my own sister wanted to dismiss her contempt for me using the same condemnation, possibly without ever considering her own projection of such remarks.
Oscar Wilde — 'All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.'
I’ve got my gullet full of tragedy but am certain there is more of it for me to stuff; the question remains wether i do so willingly and happily or choke and gag like we are depicted to do on the corporate news feed¿ Do i have a choice? I think we all do just like Sophie Scholl, the “White Rose” in prewar Germany who for her objections to the egregious attacks on freedom by the nazis chose to die rather than recant. Her comments prior to her assassination tell all; when asked about how she felt, she replied, “Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go... What does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?” There are 1,000s upon 1,000a more Sophie Scholls amongst us today. My ma in her own way wanted to be that spirit; ma was too wounded and too hungry for that to happen. That does not make my parent less a hero, or detract from her great effort to make the world better - but it is also a grand reminder there is more to be gained from love than can ever be found in greed ·
jts 25/08/2020
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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