A Crucifixion and A Resurrection (For the first part of this five-parted series, click here and for the second installment, click here and for the preceding entry, click here.) “Man Alive!” I sigh, free-falling in Life’s silver linings, lifted into the sky and received after 40 or fewer (or more!) diurnal courses in my 39th read more..
“Man Alive!” I sigh, free-falling in Life’s silver linings, lifted into the sky and received after 40 or fewer (or more!) diurnal courses in my 39th floor aerie-in-the-clouds, this shroud spreading my sentimental sentience out over tinted glass and cracked concrete on down to six-laned, one-way free-for-alls of goings and comings of go-getters gridlocked in a tacit agreement to not deliberate Death – disillusioned in an era defined by rapid dissolution and empty feeling. Holed up in my sylvan haven – a fool in the fetter, holding down my feelings – I at times feel more treed than freed in the shade of the shadow of an inter-crossed Cosmos – hung heavy and hard, unsteady here in the dust-to-dust, as a man-fueled change blows through us all like leaves on trees and feathers in the breeze in a tarred, high-risen city. So I branch out and stretch – stretch past light pollution toward darkened stars veiled but for a visible moon soon to be purely recalled by one rising sun.
I sense a sideways grazing – a tug from a forged-into ahead and a nudge from one doubtful behind as I flail and fail to be in the middle of the moment I’m in – dead-set on centering myself as I fumblingly nail this account down, stumbling upon – um – a struggling to fully capture how I feel a furry presence more in her absence than when she had shielded my childhood from an adulthood I’m all in.
And can I forgive Feather her trespasses as I wash my hands of unrepentant betrayals of the silver coined kind (that is those of Self in this backslid hymn to a beautified Him)? That pained man who endured the indignities of a plagued boyhood who, post-fallout, unashamedly contacted me over the years in deception-denying technological distraction. Bryan – mythically, miraculously seeking salvation here as I listen to the new Sufjan Stevens record in religiously regional reverence for that celestially Middle Western connection.
Those fuzzy flashes of a past of Now-Told Myths with my old dog and my old man – and that young man who continues to encapsulate the whole doggone experience.
It seems we bear our losses, feeling so alone on collective crosses, only to wear Life most in this connectional, Self-correctional Micro of a Macrocosmos. Ghosts and men come again and again in this Eternal Moment to rise up within me – hosting memories of a bloodied body on a road and a photo of a bruised face on a hospital bed. No – at nine and 31 they didn’t go before their time. Yea – they met themselves, as they did me, before time and within this Mid-Instant, surrounded only by unoccupied space – intertwining moments to interstellar months to interwoven minutes to… second ME! And they remain firstly to revive the revision of a fixation on a crucifixion as the crucible of a fiction that Death surpasses any carried execution of a resurrection of the doggedly divine Human Spirit in fissured future and pilfered prediction. Heaven and Nature, men of old and all of modernity sing from the womb to the tomb, our eyes rise to the skies, and – in a blink and an inkling of Insight – return to an eternity of Form, and come again and again to a rebirth of Sorts – born again and again into the memory of All That Is despite this limited view of Limitlessness –
As I expand within space and time, insufficiently epitomizing epiphanies of hallowed “AHA!”s indicative of every reverie that syncopates the synchronous as I long for leisure and prolong pleasure in the flow of an immeasurable moment – in the criminally minimal middle of my Almighty Self as a belated someday becomes riddled with the belaboredness of a blog-writing Today!
Oh, Daisy – from those early years! And Feather, forced in half-way moments! The departed lessen all fears of lessons of Death as they familiarize Infinitude. Every crane that threatens to prick my sky-lined view and those cancer scares that possessed a panicked present highlight how I have clung to Life as a man would have himself hung on a cross.
Resurrect yourselves, Men Alive! All live on in our synapses and in the activated and “accidental” synchronicities of these moments. Oh! – the sanctified constancy of the Day-To-Day and the trustworthiness of Transformation! Let’s make up for ourselves a Hominid Heaven, down for this Revealing through the Ancestral Tree to an Anthropomorphous Promise. Still in this Stillness. Present in this Instant.
Chance after change, I show gains through growing pains, perchance father-bothered further into a forming of a heightened know-how in a culture that normally hastens the hour as though Time-as-Man is boundless in our broadening Universe.
You, a Millennial Man, who came to be where and when and how you are. Me, the same, hunkered at my desk, under Grandma’s last painting of the perennial that bears her maiden name –
And I’m immortally – perpetually self-deprecatingly! – stoned, steering the wheel of my green Beetle, Frou Frou, with my enzian-hued “clichéd” plate, zealously down gray-laned, two-way M-43 – verily veering from Kalamazoo to Saugatuck that downright uptight, fucked-up summer of 2006 – high, here, as I stay the in-lane course on cruise control, ceding to concrete streets, sandwiched by the deliciously deciduous with a jealous Bryan as we pit-stoppedly munch a bunch as I reminisce on days with Daisy in back of Jim’s jeep in the high-seat, with deep-seated remembrances of nighttimed coniferous outlines from northward highways.
Me and Bryan – egocentric roadkill en competitive route to a conformist roadstead of silver foxes instead of disclosing ourselves to ourselves as unchecked unboxes as we playfully – gayfully! – painfully – I know now what. “I mean not what! Personhood! Something about definition – less-ness)!” Animal impulse, animism personified, Bryan and I wasting away into a rejection of Nothingness in this elongated down-and-out middle-of-the-road hesitancy. Puffed up, puffing enough to neglect mention of unforgiven, unforgiving fathers while forgetting – for the moment! – unrealized mothers who knew not their fragile selves as/from abused little girls –
Bound for absolution of forbears’ denials while found in a failed, absolved solution of needy, motherly frailty – knowing that every road leads to an end.
Death. Depression. A repression of ungrasped grief and a groping for truth – coming again and again to this loneliness of Love and Life mongrelly transmogrified into a loss of what was once Now, only Then – wrapping my forlorn Self around formed Ephemera – brain-racked and heart-attacked – humanly confronted in Life what spiritedly comforts us in Death. Yes! In unabashedly grieving over the deceased I weep under a whole wide world that wondrously – thunderously! – spins perilously, preciously within a heart-shape-created All That Is!
“EUREKA!” I know IT, and I know it beyond the shadow of a dogmatic, man-delivered doubt!
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