There is no magic bullet - we are our own ammunition · on one of the saddest days in my recent memory as i sat down to purge my bile using nothing but words, i discovered i’d miscounted and had no more whiskey to fuel my fury. What am i gonna do¿ run to the store and replenish my store of liquid courage? What you see is what you get, same as me. I have a fiction of moderation which gives me permission to continue my self-destructive habits which only layer over the pain i feel being alive, and to encourage new growth from a daily lessening of the harness and bit of self-recrimination: “A house divided against itself cannot long stand” - Abe Lincoln · the 1st republican, no small irony there. Today is my elder sister’s birthday, her disdain for me is deep and longstanding. One of my earliest memories is a blow to the top of my head by her on a garage patio which resulted in my biting through my tongue; but memories can be dicey, my mother insisting that particular injury never occurred.
Does it matter, any more than that of a day without more whiskey¿ or a day with more whiskey? I am turning 66 in one day less than a week from today - could i give a shit, please excuse the vernacular & not · I try not to, believing in the flow from unconscious mindful behavior more valuable to our species than the proscriptions of a society that would allow children to be kept in cages at the border and racial thugs using automobiles as lethal weapons in crowds of protesters with impunity. Our days are crazy, as crazy as my mother describing me in our last exchange as “obsequious.” How does one properly respond to affronts of character and nature, or more importantly how does one maintain a conviction about civility and cordiality when faced with cruelty and gratuitous arrogance?
That is part of the appeal for me with “substance,” the tongue oil that in ancient times was employed as a gauge to measure the sincerity of an applicant for public service: two interviews were held, one sober, one drunk so that those entrusted with civic responsibility could be vetted accurately, free of the oh-so-popular fake-as-fuck-persona we live with day in and day out. What troubles me most about this particular all together too personal account is how comfortable we’ve all become with lying. My mother lied to herself when she accused me publicly of “boot licking,” while i lie to myself that there is no truth in her observation. More to the point is denying the pain i feel being disrespected so by the one figure, my mother, or in sexist literature, “the mother”, which i hear trumpeted all around with honor and revered for her loving, nurturing ways - how am i to reconcile such contrasting experiences · ?
To begin with, my anima has not been tamed, so the weight of respect sits squarely on my shoulders to resolve, and i try. Lao Tzu says, “The truth is not always beautiful, nor beautiful words the truth.” Am i obsequious and it galls me to the core that my pristine sense of justice is flawed and that i am a bootlicker by nature¿ i d k - all i can manage anymore is to calmly reflect on truth as close as i can get to it without inflaming the fictions and fantasies of others of my species with similar difficulty trying to understand and navigate a path toward peace of mind and acceptance of one’s personal responsibility for their behavior. Before, with an intact ego it was possible to distinguish my failings from the misery of others, but the deeper i dig the more i must accept it is not anyone’s failings as much as a bogus premise about value i project about my own unresolved issues.
I do not wish evil upon you, and there is nothing about my eminent demise that can provoke that from me. My life is as Mr. Dylan stated so rightly, little more than a greasy skid mark in the scheme of things; so exaltation, or condemnation aside - it just feels better to wish you well and for me to continue searching for ways to contribute to your ease, rather than rail for ways to even the score. I accept that i am unimportant, yet even that fragile desire is out of scope with the conflagration that is burning all around us, but as “Popeye” said, i am what i am and it helps me to picture you smiling at my feeble desires, rather than imagine you scowling at my delusional fantasies…
jts 11/09/2020
http://stoanartst.bl
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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