09/22/13
11:01:54 AM
Well,
folks... Here we are again, and again I thank you, Patient Reader,
for putting up with this blog. Those of you who are dedicated
followers, you get my eternal gratitude... yes, even someone like me
can feel gratitude.
It is time, I think, to begin the story about The Saker. She is a beautiful raptor
this saker, and she guarded the Coeur of a most lovely woman,
Kristen. Kristen knows which Kristen she is, and I doubt she'll ever
find this blog, and if she did, I doubt she would read it. And if
she did
read it, I doubt she'd even give fuck-all. And I'll end the thread
there.
I
have only loved two women in my life, neither of whom is “C,” the
mother of my child, my 19 year old daughter. Is that so awful? She
was in love with the idea of marriage, this first wife of mine, not
in love with me.
My daughter
takes up the most space in my heart. Hell, she's the only one who
takes up any space in my heart, and to be clear, she takes it all.
Will there be anybody else in there again? Hmm, the odds are very
poor.
Wife
number two, “K,” was love number one. No children with her, just
me and she and this insanity that is me, this broken mind that
self-medicated itself into a divorce. My mood stabilizer came in the
form of a quart bottle filled with single malt. There
were, of course, other circumstances involved in our break-up, and
all of them were committed by me and me alone. But remember, I was
still the bear, then.
The whole through
thick and thin bit
seemingly was abandoned on her part, but again, the abhorrent way I
behaved excuses her leaving me. Seriously, I was that bad.
She
was the sweetest of the sweet was K, and she paid dearly for it. Had
I not fucked up, she and I would still be together, and I would never
have met the saker's charge, Kristen. Too bad that life is what
happens to you while your busy making other plans.
I
met Kristen for the first time in a dream long ago when I was 13
years old. Jesus, 31 years goes by fast, folks. I saw her over and
over in this oft-repeated dream; this recurring nightmare. Whenever
I woke from it, I would have that soul-wrecked feeling we all have
felt, and I was useless for days afterward. It did nothing positive,
let's say, for my depression.
I
met her in the flesh for the first time in this lifetime on 28 July,
2011. She is a brilliant woman, an earner of a Masters degree in English, a writer, a teacher, and to top it off, she is absolutely beautiful.
I fell in love with her in February 2012, after I had The
Dream for the final time. I hope it was the final time. This time,
in the dream, I saw her face... something my mother, who I thought
was either blowing smoke up her 13 year old son's ass, or was simply
a superstitious Shinto-Buddhist from the Old Country, had promised
would happen so very many years ago...
Perhaps
before I go any further about the Saker and the Cunning Fennec Fox, I
should tell you about The Dream...
Shall
we take a trip down that road? Splendid!
--------------------------------------------------------------
I'm
not the sort of person who falls in and quickly out of love, but to
you I gave my affection right from the start... - Joan Armatrading.
-Play me a song,Cunning Fennec Fox, she said . . .
But I was yet to become the Fox (Fennecus zerda ProperJon) , was I not? At this point I was still the tiger, no longer a cub, but the bear was brewing. Ursus Horribilus ProperJon was gestating within the womb of The World.
A couple of years later it would be born whole and angry, showing no mercy, no empathy. The stuff of nightmares, eating its own afterbirth.
I was learning- teaching myself things, the ways of the world. Ways to be human, I had hoped. Yet all I saw at the horrorshow that was my home was a world turning rapidly to shit. Soon would be ruined brains and broken hearts and burns and hatred and the shattered shower door.
But that was not yet to be. Almost . . .
I
played her
a
song. Played the guitar and sang a song I used to love. The
Weakness In Me, by
Joan Armatrading.
How I loved that song... I thought I played for
me that crisp and late summer morning. I thought I was playing for
the creek and its birds and flowers and trees. I thought I played
for me and for the rock atop which I was perched, the dead bole of a
small cottonwood at my side like an audience in a coffee shop... Imagine
my surprise when I looked to my right and saw her there. Then the
inevitable drift, the pulling-away sensation that we all get (those
of us who remember our dreams), just before we arouse from slumber.
And
sure enough, there I was lying in my bed, wrecked in my depression.
How was I to go on when my heart hurt so much? Yes, Patient Reader,
I too once had a heart.
It
took everything I had, all that I could muster just to get out of
that bed that morning. I knew what heartbreak was, knew it as I know
my name. Knew it every bit as much as what I didn't know about her.
That she would have a saker, and I would someday be a cunning fennec
fox. I was ruined, and before I fully came to grips with that, I ran
into my mother.
. . . to be continued . . .
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