.So, yeah, here I am, an official maroon, padding down this imaginary beach. And on this imaginary beach, and on real beaches too, I feel like a bad guest who's overstayed his welcome.
Life is a losing proposition. I love it, but it doesn’t love me. Meanwhile, I’m addicted to breathing, and the truth has bitten me on the ass. Now writing is a fading passion, and the wet sands of make-believe squish between my toes, as the tide rises and erases my footprints. How could my footprints mean anything? When I was a child, though, I bragged about them:
“Look, Mommy, you can see where my foot was,” I hollered, proudly. “Not like these.” By “these” I meant the half-moons cut into the sand. Nobody’s footprints, but mine were whole, and I was proud, until my mother explained what an arch was. That I would leave partial prints too, if my feet weren't flat like a penguin's..
Maybe I’d gotten in the wrong line, up there. Maybe I was too far back in that line. I can still hear the angel with the accent: “Sorry, mate. penguin flippers is all we got left—take ‘em, or leave ‘em.”
Did this really happen? If so, it was just before I was reassigned to earth, in this vehicle, as this guy. It was a regular sci-fi flick—all those lines up there full of strangers, waiting for body parts, and nobody could stand in more than one line at a time. Naturally, the Big Dick Line snaked around the block. Or the line would have snaked, if the blocks were longer at the Reassignment Center. (It’s all a hazy dream. (I think they may have botched my brain-wipe.) There's a fog between my ears now—like a herd of clouds, like left-over, dry-ice smoke from a rock concert.
Anyway, I didn’t want to be at the back of the Big Dick line. So, I cut in the Slightly-Bigger-Than-Average Line—excuse me, little fella. (As lines go, it wasn’t that long,, but it was reassuring not to be average. (I googled worldwide penile length, measuring myself periodically. Not wanting to be a total dickhead, I only broke out the ruler once a day. Although, for the sake of accuracy, frequently I was forced to encourage an erection. (BTW, what a gig---measuring dicks. Not that I want the work, but I can't help,, but wonder how a person would apply.).
Let’s talk about the lines I had to stand in up there. Because when I got to the head of the Slightly-Bigger-Than-Average line, the guy with the wings said: "Here you go, kid. Just don’t come crying to me if they overcharge you for any good times that you have with this bad boy—say what? Oh, you bet your ass, it just screws on."
Time was, the U. S. Army—flatly changing the subject—didn’t accept recruits with penguin flippers. Nowadays, though, the U.S. army will take most anybody and train them to kill, or be killed---flat feet, or otherwise. Suppose a person has been indoctrinated with an inconvenient set of ethics—thou shall not kill, for instance—the army will re-adjust their attitude at no charge. And Uncle Sam will pick up the tab for all mental make-overs. It's in a good cause—killing for peace—or some such idealistic notion..
But, bottom line---no pun intended---flat feet, with normal use, hurt their owner. ("Your penguin flippers ain’t worth a cross-eyed furlough, ya Slacker.") And speaking of slackers, most U. S. Congresspersons will never wear a uniform, unless you count their suit and tie. Although, I suppose, Congresspersons remove their suits every star-spangled night when family values and teddy bears are tucked between the covers, and a miniature American flag, is pinned to the lapel of crisply-ironed PJ’s. Although a dollar sign, would be more appropriate. (Green is the go-to color for dollar signs, but silver or gold is also acceptable.)
Congresspersons and other politicians pledge their loyalty to God and country, but politicians—like birds pecking bread crumbs—stick to their first loyalty---the money trail. First and foremost, politicians believe that money will make them happy. And it will---for a hot second, because their love and loyalty are for sale. (I guess that I’ve got a bad attitude. Maybe it’s contagious, and maybe you think that making money is more important than doing the right thing. If so, nothing I say will make the slightest difference.)
Anyhow, I cross my fingers that I’m nicer than most people. I watched a movie last night---based on true events---about a man, who killed prostitutes to cleanse his city and make it holy again The movie sets the bar low. All I have to do is not strangle strangers. I hope I can manage that..
Sometimes I wonder if the atheists are right, that this life is the only game in town. I just hope that when I’m dead, that one second equals eternity. And I hope that demons aren’t real. Life is no gift, is all I know. Otherwise, we wouldn’t owe God a death. (As Shakespeare put it.)
Speaking of God, It's ridiculous to make comparisons, and I don't--- I try not to be ridiculous, is all---but if it were up to me, I’d give everybody an exit button. You press the button and you’re out of here. Presto, no pain no mess, and undertakers would enroll in law school.
It doesn’t take much to be kinder than most people. Probably, though, you could sort me somewhere in the middle. (“I want to be beautiful. A child, who never grows up, never gets old and never turns into a liar, a thief, or some other type of scoundrel. No doubt, some groan-up will instruct me on how to be kind. Whether or not, I need instruction.)
The Buddha, reputedly, didn’t want to be re-born—not even in heaven. Nevertheless, I’m scared of dying. Call me Chicken Little, but to be nothing forever boggles my barnyard brains. I guess I’m better off not thinking about death, but no wonder people are addicted to denial. Too bad the side effects are so toxic. Yeah, life’s a bitch, and then you die. I wonder who said that. Of course, if you’re in denial, it’s all good. If you’re in denial, you can hide behind competitiveness, humor, bitching, etc., and everything's okay. Except denial disqualifies you as a true friend. But don’t worry. Nobody will notice. They’re too busy denying. Only children are real, and their parents are packing them off to school next week. Of course, children have it easy, for they're treated special. They get attention, approval, and encouragement. Life is fun, or a lesson giver.. And lesson #1 is that we should get ahead. If we don't make something of ourselves, our life is a waste. Or so they say.
If anything matters, it’s love and friendship. Too bad we’re like soldiers, who’ve seen through the propaganda and fight for each other. What else is there? Why die for a country? Why defend the over-privileged? They never wear a uniform. (Unless their coat and tie qualifies.)
Once in a while, I say, “Life is hell without jam.” I say it in French, because I like the sound of the phrase. I don’t think that I’m pretentious. I always tell people that I only know about twenty words of French. I appreciate that English has borrowed from that language, but I have no plans to conjugate verbs. English is all I can handle. (I speak present-tense Spanish.) I also speak fluent Redundantese, and I know a little Jive.
Yes, life is hell without jam, and I figure that jam is a metaphor for forgiveness. But now that I think about it, jam might be like me—full of illusions. And illusions are what we need. Illusions make life bearable. But Buddhism is all about seeing through illusion. So when did I become a Buddhist? The holy life is mostly love. But love seems to be hard Too hard to be a road I could travel for long---alas!
People tend to suck at forgiveness. I know I do. Outwardly, I can forgive. But I don’t forget worth a damn. Forgive, I can manage. I put my philosopher’s hat on, and I’m good to go. Or almost good, because they say that without forgetting there’s no real forgiveness. (And I believe that, but fool me once—your bad. But fool me twice—it’s on me.)
The Buddha was all about trust. So am I. It’s so much easier. (It’s either trust, or passwords. And if you got breath to waste, be sure to ask for a second chance, yo.)
Once people thought our puppy had run away. (I"m changing the subject again). People thought it was all my fault. Especially, after I said that I might have left the gate unlatched. Then the puppy was discovered, sleeping under a bed. The lesson seems to be that I shouldn’t blame myself so much. (Yet I hand out many free passes to myself.)
A politician once observed that the more oil a country gets, the more oil that country needs. For a minute, I thought that politician had said something profound. Then I realized that always wanting or needing more is just a basic condition of life. Because everything constantly has to top itself---be new, improved, and forever better. Was sex great last night? Was dinner a culinary triumph? Well, tonight, if dinner and sex aren’t at least as enjoyable, then you'll be disappointed.
A person’s worth is measured in money in this world. In this country. People nod in agreement, but they’d treat me differently, if I had lots of dollars. But that’s not right, you say. It’s about who a person is, not what they have. (All together now, say the word:, hypocrite. Say it loud, because the shoe fits us all.)
At least, I’ve never cheated anyone, never knowingly lied—just now is an exception, probably. Sure, on occasion, I have disrespected people. (Some were deserving of my insults, and maybe I’ve earned your scorn, in turn. All too often, I’ve done or said things I regret.)
On rare occasions, I’ve been a hero, and I’ve also been chickenshit a time or two. I’ve been in a few situations with mortality toeing the line, I usually come up brave—no guarantees, though. (Afterwards, I might be shaky. If I wasn't afraid in the moment.) In less dire instances, I’ve been generous, or stingy or unkind. Although I once broke up a fight between strangers in Barcelona, ,Spain.. The strangers thanked me.
But sorry to say, I’ve been an asshole, at times. One particular circumstance comes to mind. (I was at a wedding,) and I was buzzed on beer, clowning around somewhere between a rock and a hard place, Whatever the reason, I was in full brain-dead mode. Or all of the above, because I need an excuse. ( I don't plan regrettable deeds,, Who does?) .Anyway, I guess apologies have an expiration date. (Hey, don’t tell me that’s still bothering you, 14 years later. Oh, only when I write about it.) Or make a thing about it, instead of leaving well enough alone.)
“What’s all the ruckus?” said the puppy, poking a wet nose out from under the bed, “I mean, how do you expect a talking dog to get any rest?”
Don’t blame me, lil doggy. I’m just walking down this imaginary beach, leaving whole footprints in the sands of make-believe.. Though I won’t be strolling any beaches soon—real or imaginary, and. neither will you. Captain Obvious here. But you can call me, Mr. Sunshine. (And remember, the Reaper’s not grim, but challenged—introverted, even.) And I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank everybody, who’s treated me shabbily. It makes leaving this world easier. And if you could look into my heart, maybe you could forgive this child of God .And being as you’re one too, maybe you can tell me how to get in touch with the Big Guy.
Meanwhile, the incoming tide washes over these flipping penguin feet. I don’t mind the cold water too much, but I do have a bizarre hankering for pickled herring.