ONE FOR THE BOOKS: TESTAMENT TO A UNIQUE COLLABORATION OF MIND OVER MATTERPosted: March 23, 2014
Angela Amore, PLEASE accept this INformal if all too original invition to Holy Matrimony.
Gideon dropped me off ostensibly at the corner of 5th Ave. & Central Park South where, after bidding good wishes to an old friend and some pigeons across Grand Army Plaza, I entered, catty-corner from the Plaza and of slightly more elegance in understatement and demeanor, if less ostentatious, the lobby of the Sherry-Netherland Hotel. Overlooking Central Park, the Sherry had been the setting of my splendid dreams for some nine months now, and I crossed to the elevator with a stiffening lip anticipating wonders that lay ahead: the first meeting with The Woman Of My Dreams, to whom I had been Married for five months, Giggles.
That unlikely as underplayed monicker was a result of the serendipitous assumption that a long life of pridigious humor and grace befel the woman who thus humbled me with . . . a knot. She did it; tied before my very (discomposed) eyes, in fact, and to her Great Acclaim!
This meeting was the literal threshold of a new life in a brave if not brazen new world of lust apart, but only just, from nine years of institutional incarceration for me, having endured metaphysically the bulk of 2013 being metaphorically dragged on a rope by Jeep through the rough undergrowth of the soul by the Master Manipulator of All Time, The Author Of All. He Put Me through a hodge-podge of rough and tumbled gorse undergrowth as it pulled me along by rope through the spin cycle of history’s backdoor dreams.
I Am the Backdoor Man of legend. Not what you think: My intended was and is my Homeric long-suffering wife, who had gracefully weathered these months of frustration alone and, if her experience was as like mine as it must be – as we are the perfect match – thankful (Thanks be to The Almighty) to be home at last, I will with loyalty I Promise, relieve your loneliness and mind.
In Joycean pumkinseed hayride of clotheshorses and terwilliger jeens, remove hers and place the binders on openeyed wonders of worlds known until me. My Father may want a perversion but wontgettit – not four the world to see until McEaster but the recent redaction of modern 20th C global educational norms negates entire generations’ influence.
With the cooperation, and of course integration, of the spirit world – including, to what extent is to me irresolute, God Almighty, in All His Forms, Thanks….
I learned something today that jarred me in a vastly diferent and binderly free way than I had been used to. I reacted with archetypal tears to sharp splashing scold on my face and as this was my habitual method of greeting unnoticed lapses of stark emotional emergency on my part, took this bull by the horn and demanded something new from my cistern of poignancy appologizing for private absence of a personal life avoir du poids Cum Hellen Hiwater. I had to dig deep into the un-disrupted-in-too-long-a-while newness of light that had to be freshly stirred to awakening: teased and cajoled, simply to greet the day. Greasing the reel was not enough.
Do you understand the difficulties? You can imagine the shock all this caused to a system so berated of late by hoary northern climes’ violent weather several annular rings too long and vernal upcoming . . . Grab It! hold on greedily planting wet kiss’n’ greensprouts rooting sandy dabsnarked in Lombardy populardownhill Nob Mcrobbed ziggadtreet.
As I stood that weeks ago hung for you your approaching vernal wing from a fall as I tipped myscalywagster befourtheyallow Nine sexty a finer fifth than the won twoneae portulaca marchmarch mallowye Wye?
It bears reminding that what got me in this ‘dicament in the first place – in apparent conflict with Almighty God – was my regard, deemed extraordinary by Him and the Masterpiece of His Creation by Me, at the exclusion of all else, of the vulva and its mandibular manipulation (some might press for the use of mandibulation here) particularly the exfoliation by depilation thereof. And, my consequentially high esteem for women: the Female of the species, of whom He — God Almighty — Had Demonstrated an apparent and apparently curious contempt. ThereIn lies the rub. (Look here for a new post soon, “Food For Love,” to clarify.)
Post Script –
Shellie doled my coffee into a styrofoam cup from a caraffe with the cautious underpour of extreme experience – of having mopped the results of overgenerous proportions from the floor more than twice — and the wisdom thus induced. “Good morning, Mr. McCarthy! How are you?” He hesitated to tell her he was a Prince in disguise; A King, no less! and was positively bursting with life and the opportunity to once again dip his toes in it up to his noggin – minus the “twat” sadly of his high school nickname days dispensed to obviate his Lamb of God curly locks – Twat-Noggin, and to sip another Absolut martini up, bone dry and cold; to cast another Isonichia Bicolor spinner over a sneering 26” brown trout and then, an hour later, wipe the derision slate clean by putting the same fish in a hot skillet, glazed with brown butter and shallots chopped fine, after succumbing to a size 18 Letort Cricket and hammering it like a little Poseidon missile on the Yellow Breeches Creek in Boiling Springs, Pa.. . . .
Lawrence: Everything was half-assed. As a half-breed, he had little choice. He was only half human – the other half being divine made damn sure of that! He enjoyed life in that hellhole – a place where even the most demanding (lazyer than he, Himself) of miscreant slobs was served breakfast on schedule in bed – more than he would dare admit, least to himself. He found freedom in the shadow of the infirm, the psychotic, and the grotesquely debile; a perverse anonymous glee, where he could flee his self-imposed enslavement to work – of his brand – and pass for normal with flying colors, completely unnoticed; a singularly ordinary man who found dubious distinction in the rare like-minded bretheren among the unexceptional. And, did not mind it. Not . . . much.
Do you have any idea what it would be . . . to be a woman – no: THE woman of my dreams . . . and, to be told by no less than God Almighty what it means to me – to hear those words spoken from my mouth – I love you!?
An effort to convert sand dabs, to be used in a form other than culinary, that was taken from a dinner conversation in 1984 with Alexis Lichine who had sampled the tiny San Francisco Bay flatfish in the City by the Bay, I refer to the Almighty, voice raised and with some — misplaced — pride of accomplishment? as, “You Profligate Airbag!!!”