The subject of my tragidrama could be the loss of a parent, although mine have been long passed for several years, one an entire life length....or it could be the status of my face. I am not lacking for shallowness, a quality I love to attribute to women, as a result of our subjugation. Or should i speak of the shallowness of men?? The result of their ability to subjugate women...and dogs, pigs, lemons, bread loaves and any item - the likes of which can be somehow ultimately used for their simple satisfaction of simple sexual transport. (I forgot to mention the guinea pigs, sorry...).
But getting back to my abysmal ability to Fall deeply and longingly in love: where was I? Oh, yes, half way through a box of cheap wine...and in the middle of the couch. How long does this condition have to last? Only as long as it takes for me to reflect, in fact, reflect on my reflection. And so it goes, that I have strategically placed mirrors all the way from each room to the patio just in case my ego gets me to believing that the last formidable enthusiastic admirer had a brain cell.
I have at least foregone the expense of vain attempts to accomplish the impossible, that of sustaining youth, or manipulating the image of the same on my exterior image. Haircuts, tanning salons, manicures, blah blah blah....such dwaddle in the trivial blasphoma of cultural disease, that of the deterioration of our self respect.
Somewhere in my enigmatic strive for perfection, the goal of which is neither realistic nor useful, the bite of reality hurts my very buttocks. Yes, it takes a chunk out of my ass. Age grabs us all. Lucky for me, I might look older than you, but my organs remain unblemished in comparison. Your midlife crisis looks like a sneeze captured in a kleenix....like a bag of chips left open from last night's ball game and drunk party....like underwear that should have hit the laundry two days ago.
But still I fly in the efervescence of that high, that place where fools fear to tread, whatever in the world that means...and enjoy what seems to be sparkling crests of waves, ethereal sounds of the most formidable artists, whispers of clouds and the secrets of the Gods and Goddesses. It won't last. It never does. But for a time, my hands are captured entwined with Bacchus and Queen Boudicca and the party is about to start every time I breathe.
And I wish I could take you with me on this marvelous spontaneous spark of flaring flame, not ever a halcyon calm.
