Whenever I need to clear my head, I go fishing. It is very therapeutic. You sit there for what seems like an eternity, then if you are really lucky, one of the slimy beast will gnaw on your bait. If you are quick enough, you’ll snag the little bastard and reel it in. Come to think of it, fishing is like dating. You put your best bait out there for the lass’ and hope that one stops to check you out. And, oh the thrill if you snag one!
I like to fish for catfish. They are the slimiest and the most atrocious critters to swim in fresh water. Once hooked, they fight, splash, run under logs, and do anything to keep from being brought into the sunlight. When you do get them up on the dock, they hiss and poo like some sort of hideous creature from the underworld. I’ve been pooped on before. My hand has also been sliced open while fighting the buggers! They are quite tasty, even if they do eat other fish’s poo.
Dr. Don and myself will be heading to the lake house in the morn. I hope we catch something!
It is a natural occurrence as Homo sapiens to protect ourselves. Some of us go far and beyond what is required in self-defence. We build barriers around our hearts, souls, and minds to protect ourselves against being hurt. I’m as guilty as anyone. I’m always on the defensive. I’ve always had to guard against those that would gleefully have me six feet under. But, I have realised through experience that the only way to make friends and build relationships is to let down my guard and powerful defenses. Tis a hard task.
When a person builds said barriers and refuses to lower them for any reason, he or she could very well turn into a vile and self loathing person. I’ve seen it happen. People are so afraid of getting hurt that they end up only hurting themselves. Getting hurt by someone you love and trust is unspeakable. When people are hurt in whatever way as children, it makes it that much harder to let down his or her fortifications.
There’s a lass that I know all too well that is loving and kind but evil as hell in the same instance. She had a very hard childhood. She was treated very badly. I’ll just leave it at that. Anyway, she’s very skeptical of men, especially moi. I wonder why? It took me months to chip away her impenetrable (so she thought) wall that conceals a good heart. On the surface, she is vile witch with piss and vinegar running through her veins. We have a lot in common. I saw what was behind that wall the other day. Tis quite warm and picturesque back there. But, as I have explained to her, I don’t have all the time in the world to play games. To say that she has a temper would be an understatement to the highest degree. Those sparkling emerald eyes of hers can glaze over in an instance! She trust me more than most. That means a lot! She knows how to push me buttons!
Anyhow, I scribed this poem ’bout her. Perhaps I was a bit hard on her. What say you?
It’s not angst, it’s accentuated
A decimal point away from being read
Cold, left vacuous and underrated
A deafening shower for a beat head
The sort of rage that’s strangulated
Nearly liquefied, simmering and resolute
A glimmering vanguard that’s underestimated
Designed to defend, conceptualised to be astute
She obstinates, never content
To concede would be curt
It lies in witty comments
But she is often hurt
And it’s a fault
It’s cunning, narking
Not troubling
But it’s a fault
And it’s devised
It’s uncivilised, favourable
It’s not fables
But it’s devised
And she’s just a dame
She’s mad, insane
It’s such a game
But she’s just a dame
And nowt less
But serene blitheness
Would mend this mess
But nowt less
-Jefferson Davis-
As most of you know, I’m back into a sparring and workout routine. I work hard, when I really want something. After jumping rope and thrusting throws into a 70lb. boxing bag, I came inside to finish my workout in the cool air. I grabbed two resistance tubes that remind me of a very big rubber band. I sat down at my desk and began doing arm curl holds that build tone. Basically, you put one end of the tube under your foot, pull with the corresponding arm, and hold a curled position.
Well, I got in too much of a hurry and hoicked a bit too hard on the band. It slipped out from under my foot and hit me directly in the left eye. There was a sudden rush of pain and adrenaline, so I opened both my eyes to see if there was any blood. What I discovered through the watery pool that had filled my eyelids astonished me. I was shaken by it. I ran to the sink and washed out my eyes. My hands were shaking, when I rose to gaze into the mirror.
I could see the detail of my hands like never before. I could see out of BOTH EYE’s! The very depth of the ornate symbols that envelope the mirror came into view like never before. The ridges in my knuckles looked like deep craves. It was like going from a fuzzy old TV to a new wide screen HD one. But, as soon as I started realising what I had, it went away. It has been a few hours since that happened. I was shaken to the core. It still hurts a bit. I’ll probably have a black eye in the morning.
You think hard about it. Because I only have one good eye, my depth perception is shite! I’ve never been able to see anything but light and dark! No shapes, just black and white forms. So, to all of a sudden have something you’ve never had is overwhelming! Whatever that bloody band did to give me vision still lingers a bit. I’ve GOT COLOUR!!! I’ve never had colour in that eye before!
I’m going to have to see the eye doc, and see if he can’t knock me around a bit to bring back my vision permanently! Anyone need a sparring partner? I’m dangerous with one eye much less two! Jaysus…That was awesome!!!
Just in case you are wondering, I can’t see out of my left eye because the optic nerve for that eye never grew into place. Spinal meningitis is to blame.
The song in the video below is by Lenny Kravitz. He’s a cool cat! The song is talkin’ ‘bout a lady he’s missing, but I miss me full vision at the moment! At least, I know what the rest of you people see, even if only for about 30 seconds. Bastards…
I have been trying to finish a series of post from Ireland for the last couple of days, but to be honest; something has been bugging me for more than a week. I’ve been a bit out of sorts. Wounds always heal, but they sometimes leave a nasty scar that smacks you in the face every morning.
I worshiped the ground my father walked on while growing up. He was my hero. The man could and still can turn anything into gold. He can straight faced tell you that he shot Abraham Lincoln and you’d believe it. He can fictionalise anything on the fly. And, you wonder where I get it from?
About six or seven months ago, we started communicating again after years of estrangement. We’ve had our kerfuffles over the years, but I generally stayed away from him for my mother’s sake. I have been his sparring partner most of my life. Of course, I had no desire to spar with anyone as a kid, but I kind of enjoyed knocking him on his ear once when I was 16. I was a wee lad at that age.
Over the past few months we’ve grown closer. I’ve been able to bounce words off of him instead of fist which is a rare feat. He has given me advice and even encouraged me to move to Ireland, if that is what I truly want to do. I’ve told him about the women I’ve loved, the one that got away, and the myriad of others that I’m constantly chasing after. That kind of talk gets his undivided attention. I told him how I felt like I got shafted and deserved another shot.
We’ve talked about my Mum, which is a very touchy subject. They had a very…very nasty divorce. In short, all men, including myself, have a weakness for women. It is not as much a weakness for him, as it is an essence that drives him.
At the time, they had seven different businesses that my mother and her secretaries ran. They had a paving company, a grading company, a landscaping company, a battery company, an automotive repair shop, a real estate company, and an entertainment company (arcade/go-carts). All of that was liquidated during the divorce. Millions of dollars were thrown around along with slanderous words. I didn’t go to any of the proceedings.
Me and the one sister that I had at the time (1995) were given property and trust funds. My dad apologised for his mistakes but it was too late. My mother had put up with it for too many years. They only fought over a few things, one of which was my old truck that he and I built in ‘89, I think. He didn’t let go of it easily.
The truck in question has been in my procession ever since. I have watched over it, bathed it, and kept it in working order. There are a lot of good memories of me and pops working on that old 56 Ford Pickup. It was the only time that we could have a real conversation with one another.
After returning from Ireland a few weeks ago, I decided to sell the old hunk of steel. So, I called up me pops and asked if he wanted to buy it. He was delighted at the news. We had lunch and he told me what he wanted to do to it. I could see the excitement in his eyes, as he showed my sisters the truck and told them about us building it. It was like he was able to relive a good part of his life that he had put away.
Well, the feuding over the truck ensued between my parents. It was like I was reliving all of that garbage over again. He took the high road and she took the low road on this one. She held the title and wouldn’t relinquish it. He washed his hands of the entire fiasco. He has a “New” life and didn’t need the drama, so she won.
Ever since they talked on the phone, he’s not answered my calls. I called him on “Father’s” day, but to no avail. I do not even know where the man lives. You know, I’m going to be leaving here in two months for a long while. I really need to talk to me pops, but I can’t spar with him over the phone or in the ring if he doesn’t answer the phone.
I went about five years one time without talking to him. I couldn’t do that now! I’ve learned that we don’t really know what tomorrow will bring, so it is best to make amends with those that we are feuding with. Tis not good to go to bed mad at anyone.
After work today, I came home and went straight out to my garage/sparring ring/gym/sauna. While beating the living hell out of the unfortunate boxing bag, I caught a glimpse of my neighbour out of the sweaty corner of my eye. He was standing outside the door hollering over the thrums of a shortwave radio sitting atop an antique refrigerator in the corner. I paused to speak to him and realised that there was blood oozing down two fingers of my martial arts gloves. He said I had been furiously hitting that bag like it was someone for a straight half hour without pausing. While dripping with sweat and still shaking from adrenaline, I nodded and looked at my watch that was in my pocket and realised that he was right.
I ran in the house and cleaned up my hand. The nylon seam and friction had cut into my pinky. He hung around for a bit, had a beer, and playfully sparred with me. He said he’d never seen me so mad in the seven years we’ve been neighbours. He grabbed another beer out of my antique fridge and held the bag for a bit, ‘til my hand started bleedin’ again. No pain, no gain, right?
Sometimes you have to fight for what you want. Sometimes the beautiful words I scribe, the pictures I take,, and the sketches I draw don’t cut the mustard. Sometimes you have to fight for every breath. I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve had to fight to stay alive most of my life. I don’t like to fight, because I am afraid of what I’d do to the other man. As I told a guy recently that was asking for it, “I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of what I’d do to you”.
I, like my father, am small boned. We’re not big boned people. I’m starting to understand why he felt the need to beat the crap out of people two feet taller than him and become a legend in these parts. Mind you, I’ll not follow his path on child rearing. No effing way! I have never and will never hit a woman! And, I will never ever hurt a child. I’ll learn to deal with it in my own way. Tis not in my nature to be mean, sly maybe, but never mean.
I’ll be out there tomorrow evening hitting that bag and jumping rope. But, I’ll be doing it to get in shape, not feed the fury that rages inside of all of us.
There’s a beer in the fridge for you, pops.
I didn’t really know where this post was going, when I sat down here to write it. It’s still a bit of a mess, but you get the general idea, I hope? Karma has a crazy way of playing you from time to time. My dad now lives with three of my sisters and their mother. That’s four women against my short and getting old pops. I love it! Let me add that he worships the ground those girls walk on. He’s very mild and quite mannered these days.
Today has been a whirlwind of creativity. I got up and had breakfast with Uncle Elathan. Then, I went downtown to snap a few shots of the picturesque gardens, mind you; they stink from the leaking sewer pipes that run alongside the river. I met some friendly bees while bumbling through the flower beds. They were very photogenic. After all of that excitement, I came home and wrote a wee poem that I’ll share with my beloved readers later. And, I’ve been inspired to get me charcoal and graphite pencils out of hiding. I may be able to get a drawing done before work.
I don’t go into work until 5:00PM! I only work three hours! That is asinine!!! Ah well, I only have 40 days of that job left, so no worries for me…
P.S.: I will have a follow up post to Southern Exposure out by late this evening Saturday afternoon evening. Also, the picture above is of a Southern Breakfast. That’s two eggs over medium, crisp bacon, and buttered grits. I don’t eat that greasy stuff often! The one below is of a bee, of course.
