The Dark Knight Rises
Walking now to the movie theater. Gonna catch a midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises. My seventeen year old, Paolo, says he has a seat saved for me. Three rows from the top. Theater number eight.
Walking down the middle of the unlit residential streets at 11:30 pm, had a few beers, in no way drunk. Pensive perhaps. Pondering. Postulating. In my life now this is maybe the theme. The Dark Knight Rising. Me. Returning to the world. Crawling out of my Batcave and reanimating; resurfacing. Become strong once again. Empty street. The night country. The proving ground for those in need of testing themselves, of struggling to rise. Of manifesting once again that which had been before.
Inside my own head, mostly, watching, mostly. Surveying. Appraising. Ending that which needed ending. Scripting and then acting out my own rise to liberation. To some modified but no less real or effective power.
Movie has ended. Standing off to the side of the theater watching the credits play out. Movie house trash on the floor, spent tickets, broken kernals, chewed out gum. With the others I wait for any possible new trailer or sneak peak or reveal to be shown as the credits finish rolling. Suoerman. The rumor is a spot for some new Superman flick.
He rose. The Batman. He rose. We here are rising. Here in the midst of this megalopolis of burdens and of sorrows we rise. And I am rising and once more I shall return to being the master of all that I survey. And why not. Why not claim that which is the birthright of all, the right and the access to achieve confidence, solidity, safety, and in the end, a knowledgable and knowing quiet.
To that end I will rise up and in my awakening I shall allow others also to awaken, by my unbending so shall others unbend their atrophied limbs and souls as well. Here in this small slice of time in this place in this life will I make my stand. Here in the ruins of that life which I have lived shall I straighten and plant my name above any and all doorways. I shall and I am.
At home now readying for my trip through Morpheus' realms. Content now each evening as I rest, no longer twisted right through with the dripping wet chains of turmoiled love, of the mighty wind of relationship gone awry. No longer do the nights promote the cuckhold stink of spoiled honor or of inevitable decay. No, i have passed now through tbe membrane, travelled fully to the other side. No longer need I cower from the shame of my own self judgement. In my life today, in tje exact centet of my being, there exists a steady eye resolved and content to peer forward into my beginning and not backward into my end.
Sent from my iPod
Saturday, August 4, 2012
This is Not My Beautiful Life
I don't think I like this place I'm at. In life I mean. Post-marriage number two, nearing fifty, kids at the age where they just ain't around much,
Whadda they call it? Incrementalsim? Like the frog boiling in the pot. Like gaining weight. it happens so slowly that from day to day it's not noticeable. And then i shake my head, clear it, and here I am thirty year later, striding through middle age, struggling with addictions to substances, food, love. And burned. Recently burned. Like when your best friend of many years turns out to be a liar. And a cheat of uncanny proportions.
How does one regain this lost ground? How does one climb back into the sunlight and the air? Fat. Gray haired. Squeaking in the wrists and ankles. Desperately seeking and probing for the right path back into the proverbial garden. Some manner of entrance, some road leading not to perdition but instead to a contented and fullfilled life.
How does one 'process' the dark matter? There isn't really any place to do that. Not any place that matters. Sure there are friends, but they don't want the gory details. Who can blame them? But it's those details that yearn to be spilled over, to be spoken aloud with a pair of compassionate eyes looking back. There are paid friends to spill to. Counselors. The hundred dollar an hour answer. They who will hear and listen actively to each and every infraction committed against my personage but who, ultimately, don't much matter. I mean let's be real here, I can shout my troubles to a granite wall as well. And save some thousands in the process.
It is late now and time for rest. From my bed I see the light of her bedroom window. Friends ask if this is not too close for any proper sort of separation and I can not help but to shake my head and respond, 'No.' And yet it is. And so I do my best to look away all the while recoiling from the cold shower of it all. So sudden and yet so, so long in the coming. The scheduled train on time yet one waits and listens and maybe hears. On time and at long last at the same time. I saw it coming all along and where the hell did all of THAT come from?
It keeps churning. Life that is. Churning, grinding away, hustling down the little highway of it's own creation. That thing most hallowed, the sacred and untouchable, the fibers of the three sisters, la vida, the whole enchilada. We stand before the runaway locamotive of our lives like straw people before a hurricane. Grass to be cut down.
How then is it that we somehow muster onward? What lines of genetic code have evolved within us that propel us forward, swimmers dashing upstream, valiently and so too futilely moving, despite our strongest efforts, backwards?
Humanists we must be. Yes, humanists. People who operate from the ingrained understanding that we are all really the same. We are all, in the words of Wavy Gravy, 'going around shaking hands with ourselves.' Through this humanist lens we have pity on, we sympathize with, we feel for, we reach out to, befriend, connect to, mate with, merge. It is then in the moving forward in spite of, and in the battling against all odds that we display our innate drives-those which allow us to swallow our tribulations and to align our faces against the inclement winds and to set our feet and to tighten our belts and to speak loudly against the misfortunes and the abuses and to move forward towards the fullfillment of our goals and hopes and our dreams.
Perhaps then that is the spot at which I need to place my feet. Turn towards the elements and, shouting my 'fuck yous,' saddle up and get ready to rumble with a gleam in my eye and a smirk on my lips.
'Fuck you, world.' Striding confidently forward into that black night, a claw hammer gripped purposefully in my right hand, 'Here I come!'
Sent from my iPod
Whadda they call it? Incrementalsim? Like the frog boiling in the pot. Like gaining weight. it happens so slowly that from day to day it's not noticeable. And then i shake my head, clear it, and here I am thirty year later, striding through middle age, struggling with addictions to substances, food, love. And burned. Recently burned. Like when your best friend of many years turns out to be a liar. And a cheat of uncanny proportions.
How does one regain this lost ground? How does one climb back into the sunlight and the air? Fat. Gray haired. Squeaking in the wrists and ankles. Desperately seeking and probing for the right path back into the proverbial garden. Some manner of entrance, some road leading not to perdition but instead to a contented and fullfilled life.
How does one 'process' the dark matter? There isn't really any place to do that. Not any place that matters. Sure there are friends, but they don't want the gory details. Who can blame them? But it's those details that yearn to be spilled over, to be spoken aloud with a pair of compassionate eyes looking back. There are paid friends to spill to. Counselors. The hundred dollar an hour answer. They who will hear and listen actively to each and every infraction committed against my personage but who, ultimately, don't much matter. I mean let's be real here, I can shout my troubles to a granite wall as well. And save some thousands in the process.
It is late now and time for rest. From my bed I see the light of her bedroom window. Friends ask if this is not too close for any proper sort of separation and I can not help but to shake my head and respond, 'No.' And yet it is. And so I do my best to look away all the while recoiling from the cold shower of it all. So sudden and yet so, so long in the coming. The scheduled train on time yet one waits and listens and maybe hears. On time and at long last at the same time. I saw it coming all along and where the hell did all of THAT come from?
It keeps churning. Life that is. Churning, grinding away, hustling down the little highway of it's own creation. That thing most hallowed, the sacred and untouchable, the fibers of the three sisters, la vida, the whole enchilada. We stand before the runaway locamotive of our lives like straw people before a hurricane. Grass to be cut down.
How then is it that we somehow muster onward? What lines of genetic code have evolved within us that propel us forward, swimmers dashing upstream, valiently and so too futilely moving, despite our strongest efforts, backwards?
Humanists we must be. Yes, humanists. People who operate from the ingrained understanding that we are all really the same. We are all, in the words of Wavy Gravy, 'going around shaking hands with ourselves.' Through this humanist lens we have pity on, we sympathize with, we feel for, we reach out to, befriend, connect to, mate with, merge. It is then in the moving forward in spite of, and in the battling against all odds that we display our innate drives-those which allow us to swallow our tribulations and to align our faces against the inclement winds and to set our feet and to tighten our belts and to speak loudly against the misfortunes and the abuses and to move forward towards the fullfillment of our goals and hopes and our dreams.
Perhaps then that is the spot at which I need to place my feet. Turn towards the elements and, shouting my 'fuck yous,' saddle up and get ready to rumble with a gleam in my eye and a smirk on my lips.
'Fuck you, world.' Striding confidently forward into that black night, a claw hammer gripped purposefully in my right hand, 'Here I come!'
Sent from my iPod
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