A Resurrected Adam (Part One)

 

A Crossroad

Daisy

Arms outstretched, I flailed myself onto my father’s bed – a frail child, reddened face pressed pillow down, blood-filled and choking up a boundless flow. A prescient boy who – in one forceful blow of bloodied fur – had split-secondly parted with innocence through his precious Daisy’s collapsing in one heart-break of a vehicular thud. In this violent crash and my abiding loss, I proved an unprepared-for, crumpled casualty – prostrated foremost over this doggedly misunderstood, middle-of-the-road despair. A grievously unforeseen passing and a lasting responsiveness to one familiar mound of fated ephemerality on unfamiliar concrete that quickly drove a feeble, shaking frame to shed a fading freshness while ashamedly failing to fill Daddy’s sheeted indent.

My aunt had screamed “JIM!” as she ceased backing her sedan out of the driveway of his latest place toward one jam-packed M-119, where Harbor Springs broke away from Petoskey, her brakes slamming – as had those of the car that’s hood took my beloved mongrel of a presence present from my infancy – yes, that dedicated tail-wagging spirit taken from within warm doggy flesh – and, “NO!” – now, without, tearing me from any chance at childhood in that crushingly instant instance. My old dog. This new house. Heartbroken youth between shielding thicketed forest and threateningly unsheltered thoroughfare, harbored under ceiling and spread over bedding over box springs on this bedstead yielded to as much for its width –

As for this childlike appeal to any depth of perception of its occupant, whose last name his singular kid claimed with a given name as his only son’s middle one – this jilted James Allen, this forsaken forebear of a flowery heir so susceptible to felt sorrow and a flamboyantly begotten reflection of an airy facet of himself he would allow a blowing over by in a looming morrow rather than being swept under and in by this Adam James’ genuineness this mournful morning. Thunderously authentic, I was but a budding abstraction to the masculine parent – effeminate prey to a panic that crept over, under, and in – far predating me.

What was handed down at saddened seven was that dear Daisy ascended from that unsanctified street to a made-up hound heaven so that I could cross this threshold banished from inexperience past and bound to the cloudy experience of a prepubescence contained in the essence of a strained relationship betwixt this patriarchal figure and his peculiar descendant’s shared fear-fueled, latently located otherness.

His hated ex-wife’s sister hovering, attempting to mother me – the archetypal maternal of my Aunt Colleen belatedly consoling me, arched over my sobbing body and smothered soul expressions as my baby cousin Jenny quietly observed the deafening scene beside her – and the typically absently paternal in the periphery childishly muttering one rejection of a “Doggone it, Adam!” from the hallway – chastising with explanations about a silver fox, instinct, and a chase – that wretched furry mass may right well have goddamned been my figurative form on that unholy stretch of worn, boyhood-ending highway –

And as I stormed within myself and externalized what was less and less over Daisy’s death with every tremendous heave – and more and more were tears howled heedlessly under the heaviness of a precocious sense of a disposable protection – I was simultaneously inside of and divorced from myself, surrendering to a selfdom that would never be the same. A cryptic consciousness of the adult world’s pulling me away from my Alright Self as it strove to steer me apart from a full disposition to Almighty Transience – dealing with my position of whole humanness, stealing me away from a whole-hearted humanity – where and when and how I wanted simply to feel – feel freely and flagrantly and everlastingly!

The empathetic maternal had intended to drop me off to a mundane day, returned to the emphatic paternal, only for a beautiful beast’s dying to thwart plans and herald my push on into an aberrant era. And what I know now is that they knew not what they did, not having the know-how themselves to believe what we all already knew.

(To continue on in this five-part series, click here.)

Add a Response 10 thoughts on “A Resurrected Adam (Part One)

  1. Adam,

    You are an amazing writer, and I look forward to reading on further in this series at a later date to take it all in.

  2. Gorgeous and captivating writing, Adam. Can’t wait to read parts two and three! Thank you, as always, for sharing your story with all of us. Enjoy the week.

  3. I can’t quite find the words to adequately convey how powerful this piece was, especially “What was handed down at saddened seven was that dear Daisy ascended from that unsanctified street to a made-up hound heaven so that I could cross this threshold banished from inexperience past and bound to the cloudy experience of a prepubescence contained in the essence of a strained relationship betwixt this patriarchal figure and his peculiar descendant’s shared fear-fueled, latently located otherness.”

    I think I’ve said it before… there’s a book or two or three in you!

  4. Dear Adam,

    I love this last line ” And what I know now is that they knew not what they did, not having the know-how themselves to believe what we all already knew” This hits home for me too in a big way and like Chris said, I’m sure to many more of your readers. Wonderfully done. Big hugs and love.

    • Thanks, Dennis! How on Earth can we get to having that “know-how”? I’m glad you’re along for the journey… Adam

  5. I’m wondering, Adam, if this is an example of violence,and the loss that follows, which can suddenly put a rip in reality, which brought you, a child, prematurely and more fully into your Self (with a capital “S”). As you put it, “surrendering to a selfdom that would never be the same.” What seems to have happened is that this child, so special, so very special, did not, ultimately, shut down, at this early experience of death, but began to expand. And continues to expand as a man. Not so much because of the reality of death, itself, but the reality of “transience,” which had been there all along, just not in your sights– until then!

    And what gorgeous writing this is:
    “Thunderously authentic, I was but a budding abstraction to the masculine parent – effeminate prey to a panic that crept over, under, and in – far predating me. ” It’s change-making. It changes my own perception as you prompt me to remember my own childhood violence.

    With this blog, you are continuing to move forward in exploring the shadows of a childhood, that is so completely you, and yet told in such a way that I can, and perhaps so many of my fellow readers can, too, intensely identify with this type of horrible, disorganizing principle that forced you, forces all of us, even as children, to decide in that very moment to be more human or less so.

    I can hardly wait for the next installment. For the Resurrection–and Creation!– of little and big, Adam.

    Oh, and speaking of, Happy Easter!

    • Precisely, Chris – and how we ought to look upon those reality rips, those deep-seated unsettlings, as evidences of the omniscient truth of transience. To resurrection! To creation! 🙂 Thank you, dear man. Adam

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