WHO AM I?
A friend and former
shipmate of mine and I, both of us old pirates on the sea of life did not pass
quietly as ships do sometimes in the night. We hove-to, dropped our sails and
spent a few hours juxtaposed and adrift together. It was not smoke and mirrors,
cannon blasts or fancy swordplay. It was genuine, problematic intimacy. She,
the world navigator reported a tumult of miracles, bombings, and Beruit taxi
rides. Always the positive. Always ahead of the games. On the way to care for
grandbabies between world-wide gatherings armadas of small pleasure craft-lives
into workshops in which she boards, and opens treasure chests of the heart in a
therapeutic ransacking.
There is a deranged proximity about us –
and the others. Some were monks, are still monks, will always be monks out of
the flow. They loving their logic. We
have left them in the monasteries while we freebooters cannot sit so still for
so long. We think better beneath the flysheets dealing with the flow, the
forces far bigger than ourselves, the gales, the currents, the tides, apparently
still surviving. Desiring for the difficult, the unsettled, the potential
exotic, the flesh. The vital words without logic. The rap of lives rhymed, and
always very much alive, very much flowing, flowing.
WHY AM I HERE?
Freedom. We serve no
King nor flag except the tattered hearts and push the debate. There are hints
of prostitution but only from those who see life as a debit-credit scheme. We
are under the waterfall of life, pleased at all costs. Suspecting emotions. We
are linguistically in disarray rubbing up against our apparent feelings. There
are obvious conclusions.
A glass of red wine. Two Margaritas.
Grilled fish. A large bowl. And the stories, always the stories. The pitfalls.
Blindsides. Near misses. We dissolve into tears. Touch as only old pirates of
the heart will permit themselves to be touched by another. There is no myth of
dominance. We plunge into desolation. Dive into the unfulfilled, never to be
fulfilled, what were we thinking? We short-circuit
our best and most well-worn vanities. We imply old successes but tread on the
deck of tragedy. And laugh. We laugh. We know we will not stay. Cannot stay.
WHAT DO I WANT?
Piracy is not
carried out in a monastic order. We are lonely. We turn our loneliness those
destiny moments with others - fierce and mad enjambments. Crowd scenes where
everyone but us is clothed in burkas where we only see their eyes and then
comes their revelations of secret, childhood (teenage, adult, mid-life, elder) abuse
they have held onto so tightly they have pressed into jewels. Their lives have
been arranged around these jewels to protect them because, they would be adrift
otherwise. The heart chests hold such awful jewels. And, pirates, well pirates
help the agonized victims open their chests and look at the jewels of great
value.
Like an oozing, unasked snake that is fascinating
and coils around us and between the piratess and I filled with venom and
investment, is the question, “So, how are
you, really?” with the drop into the abyss on the word “really.
But, we don’t pry. We are shy. We know the
awfulness we have in our chests and we presume the other has the same –
probably worse. After all, she is older, walking the plank of age, disease,
doubt, fear... or am I talking about myself again? Probably.
That’s why we move. Move away from the
coiling questions, which we give to others. We know the questions, we can shift
the wind, the currents, the question. We don’t want to be faced with actually
looking into what the other has in her heart. “Look at that, will ya? What will I do about that fetid, stinking
treasure I love so much?”
Awful jewels are what people keep in their
chests. Better not hurt one another. Another day. Maybe a mooring in the
future. The note with the black dot. Treasure
Island?
© Copyright 2015,
Jean W. Yeager
All Rights Reserved
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