“Wherever you stand, be the soul of that place.” - Rumi · I have been unkind to myself for so long that it makes me afraid to take my soul anywhere but where i stand. I am not exactly sure why i have been so unfriendly to myself. I have learned to watch my behavior such that it has been described to me as “hyper vigilance.” I have learned that not everybody will claim that behavior, but i’ve met many who will act it out - for example, the leader of the free world, “he who would call himself my president” routinely spews falsehoods, if i had to take a guess it is because he doesn’t possess a very healthy self-image. I know this because as a teenager, i would embellish the truth about things, or circumstances about which i lacked confidence. A better example might be “reaction formation” to the circumstances where i now live. Originally i sought sanctuary from my native land because of the “fakeness” it had come to embrace about what it means to be successful - i brought my fakeness with me · regardless of my intention, i feel i am a contaminate ·
I had grown up in a Southern California suburban city in Orange Country - renown for its conservative demographics and home to the richest per-capita community in the nation, at the time, Corona Del Mar. As such “keeping up with the Joneses” took on a diabolical complexion that was schizophrenic on its face. My 2nd hometown after Santa Monica was known as Goat Hill; at the base of Goat Hill's cliffs, the price per square foot on the bay was the highest in the nation. There was no escape from the mythology of the “Haves and Have-nots.” When ma married her 2nd husband a CEO from an insurance brokerage firm and moved to Beverly Hills it tore the working class roots of my family’s history down the center and called into question every closely held prejudice i possessed. He, my stepfather loved my mother well and mended wounds she’d carried alone throughout my childhood, mostly because she and my father did not communicate well - and i believe he was tending to his own wounds without any help, ironically the same as she.
I loved my stepfather, but never held solidarity with his faith in wealth - my kin, not so much · Each, to my limited understanding about their lives and what they believe, embraced in part, or in whole, the notion that “life is like a shit sandwich, the more bread ya’ got, the less shit you have to eat;” it is, i believe a fiction that my native land has bought hook, line and sinker. But it also became my nation’s greatest export - the delusion of the “infinite growth paradigm.” This paradox has come home to roost in my magical window. I live adjacent to a farmer family who are as decent as the day is long and as indefatigable as the day is to the morning. At some point in our relationship as neighbors, food began to appear at my window. Simple meals and delicious - what is difficult to explain is that i had moved to this country because it allowed me to fend for myself as i have for the past 50 years, and still have enough left over to contribute. So no matter how i phrase my appreciation, and explain that i have more food than i can prepare, or how badly i feel about food i bought to eat going to waste - the window remains filled daily with delicious food, i would be a beast to decline.
There are worse dilemmas i know, but the paradox cuts to the core of our world - how to get what the haves have to the have nots · What i have found in my travels has been the recurring contingent of humanity bent on the reverse logic that is oh so popular with the Capital of my country - pun intended · Those fake entrepreneurs in their Brooks Brother suits that wouldn’t last a day in any market that i have shopped in for the past 5 years of my life are so brazen as to buy air time to convince poor people the only hope for success is to give more money to “empty suits” because that shows faith and good business sense. As a cocky kid i remember very clearly the first time i got “sharked” playing pool. The pool hall was close and housed a slot car track which allowed a lot of juvenile traffic. My neighbors at the time i was age 12-14 owned a pool table which i utilized a lot. This particular afternoon at the pool hall, my opponent set his hook and drew me in like a flopping fish out of water; i must have ridden my bike back to my secret stash of “summer allowance” a half dozen times before i had to accept the fact of superior forces - a hard, but long lived lesson·
I worry about lessons - self reliance was very nearly beaten into me by my pacifist, but not militant pacifist father · so when i am faced with a magic window that acts like a cornucopia, my inclination is to feed it rather than be fed; and “therein lies the rub” as Will might say. Wasichu is the name given to the white man in my native country - Wasichu means “he who takes the meatiest part of the bone.” So today in the midst of my existential conundrum, i determined to return the plate to the magical window with vittles from my day’s catch which included the long armature of a chicken; the paradox in a sentence is i chose the thigh for myself and cut off the drumstick to share with my friends, a gesture that sticks in my craw for its selfishness and exposure for the Wasichu i am, or the Wasichu i do not want to be. I D K. I know that until our generosity toward others is the same as we would show toward ourselves, regardless of self-image issues or assertions of fake kindness our world is gonna remain unfucked; the paradox for me is, i will never be able to give fully to another until i can completely accept that what i have is enough . .. ··· go figure; what can i say? i like thighs - ask any one of my last 3 wives.
jts 30/08/2020
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
∞
No comments:
Post a Comment