Let me tell you what I know about life.
Possession and possessiveness and luck.
This is what I understand.
When I claim something as mine, be it intangible, or solid. I expect it to be mine. I want it, and everyone else, to know I have conquered and claimed.
I do not believe in sharing, equalization, or equality. None of us started out the same, how can we possible claim the illusion of equal footing? That is just what government feeds those who are down on their luck and need a little kick to feel like they can be somebody. Bullshit. The luck of the draw I say, the luck of the draw.
I was born in a private catholic hospital. The care was high, the admission higher. But the hospital was a tribute to God, and of course to those who could afford it. There were many babies born on the same day. We were all placed in lacey bassinets, lined up in a glass room. A petting zoo for people. The baby next to me, Samuel R. Houffintin, went home to a well off family, a large house, and two small dogs.
My parents were acquaintances of Mr. and Mrs. Houffintin and would allow us to play together 2 times a week.
4 years later, when the stock market crashed, Sammy’s parents lost it all. The family dropped out of social status, and sightings. Who knows what happened to little Samuel? Rotton luck, really. As luck would have it, I was born into a wealthy family. That stayed wealthy. My parents were well to do sort of people. Never a shortage of anything. Me, born gifted, talented, handsome, and intelligent, to a family of high social standings and wealth. That my friend is luck. Does that make me better than you?
Or even better than Samuel?
Well that depends where your value judgments lay. But I would say, at the very least, that I was better off.
So now that my marriage is failing, now what?
Poor me?
No, I have never been poor in my life.
Miserable, yes. Anxious, yes. Hollow, yes. Dead, definitely yes. These things I have been. But never poor.
My father use to say that the measure of a man is his means.
That makes me very rich, in everyway. It is my possessions that I own. It is my possessions that make me who I am. It is that moment when you are handed over the papers, the bag, the receipt, the keys. It is that moment, that moment of MINE. That is life. The possessiveness that follows, that’s love to varying degrees.
My father use to say, all he ever needed was a fine scotch on the rocks. I don’t think he ever really understood the nature of need.
Regardless, he was always a lot easier to please.
Next
20050318
20050317
Confessions for a dime
As I sat and watched the sun diminish behind the horizon, I felt alone.
The warm glow that had caressed my face for hours now turned into a cool sting of night frost. Still I sat in the empty parking lot hoping that the answers would come. The blank thoughts faded into detachment and as the stars littered the sky, the utter silence disturbed my very core. Disgusted I turned away in search for superficial light. Sanctity in an all night coffee shop, confessions for a dime. My coffee cup cradled in my palms, spinning, shifting, and watching the turmoil of the ocean inside. Feeling more attached to this puddle existence then the container that restrained it.
A plan, a plan, I needed a plan.
I was worried, and I was scared. It had been 5 weeks since my last period.
“It’s late, it’s just late”, I told myself. Cupping the hot coffee cup in my hands I thought about all the choices my own mother must have had to make.
I am 6 again stretched out on the rug, coloring. My mother in the kitchen, riffling through the cupboards. I hear the crinkle and folds, the clang of bottles. A low buzzing sound. The kitchen fan.
I get up and walk to my room.
A map. The map to my childhood home. Inside me I still run through the hallway. I close my eyes and hear the sound of the kitchen floor creak and bend as I move towards the door.
I vaguely remember my mother. Legs like tree stumps, thick, solid, rooted. But she was never upright. Bottle in hand, I never knew her. I knew to not speak in the mornings and not to hear in the nights.
My mistake was that I saw.
Next
The warm glow that had caressed my face for hours now turned into a cool sting of night frost. Still I sat in the empty parking lot hoping that the answers would come. The blank thoughts faded into detachment and as the stars littered the sky, the utter silence disturbed my very core. Disgusted I turned away in search for superficial light. Sanctity in an all night coffee shop, confessions for a dime. My coffee cup cradled in my palms, spinning, shifting, and watching the turmoil of the ocean inside. Feeling more attached to this puddle existence then the container that restrained it.
A plan, a plan, I needed a plan.
I was worried, and I was scared. It had been 5 weeks since my last period.
“It’s late, it’s just late”, I told myself. Cupping the hot coffee cup in my hands I thought about all the choices my own mother must have had to make.
I am 6 again stretched out on the rug, coloring. My mother in the kitchen, riffling through the cupboards. I hear the crinkle and folds, the clang of bottles. A low buzzing sound. The kitchen fan.
I get up and walk to my room.
A map. The map to my childhood home. Inside me I still run through the hallway. I close my eyes and hear the sound of the kitchen floor creak and bend as I move towards the door.
I vaguely remember my mother. Legs like tree stumps, thick, solid, rooted. But she was never upright. Bottle in hand, I never knew her. I knew to not speak in the mornings and not to hear in the nights.
My mistake was that I saw.
Next
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