One-eyed Kings

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I guess I have never really written about or talked about my creation of myself and the rejection of my parents, or at least their flaws I could not stand in younger days. I remember my older sister complained about a guy from online who was in his forties having a sexuality crisis and going on about being bisexual, on a first date no less. I usually enjoy the cluelessness of men and the hilarious methods and stratagems they use to woo women, it’s a real guilty pleasure and makes single bar hopping fun. But now I relay and think back on things as I read about other characters relations with relations and what they do and separate themselves from with their parents.

I had heard so much about my father’s flaws and errors from the mummy and collected what I knew of hers. My father was bad with money and business, a little too trusting of the wrong people and spend spend with the pocket linings because of growing up poor. I tried not to be like that, that wisp of a gambling addiction he had, roughly equivalent. I was good at saving, building up my account, moving money to different accounts to yield more interest without going full into the stocks and bonds and trusting a broker. I saved enough to bust up on my downhill spree of debauchery and vice and finding myself among the bullshit and asshole behaviour, a regular movement.

As I think of my mother and what she was often like I wonder at the choice of women I made and fell for. Mom had a bunch of great qualities and kept the family intact like a trooper but hard at times, angry, negative, the yelly type. I fell for the soft women, the nice soothing voices, the sympathetic kindness and warmth that exuded out from them, I was addicted to their energy, the vibe man. Now I wonder if I am a bit of a cliche, the Indian with the overprotective mother who has to bite his tongue and maybe goes a little gay because of her overbearing nature and slightly bad taste for women. The harshness of her growing pains, the sharp Scorpion tongue lingering belligerently in my skull.

Experience, like with everyone else, has done a number on me and my worldview and connections to these people in front of me. Too many trust issues with men and especially women. Much sensitivity and bouts of jealousy and insecurity. Every one talkie talkie behind backie, call me wacky crazy sexy coolie. I watch the pretty ones and happy ones, lonely ones slink along the blue scholar avenue, weird ones fumble and mumble like I do. Go from woman admirer to bisexual confusion to asexual seclusion. I am my own, I am lone, I like my quiet and peaceful home and I can love what is right now, my approximation of love.

I’ve settled enough but I believe in life examined, always questions, always a secret to the self or repression, subconscious lying for sparing kindness. What do I hide from myself? Will mindful awareness and probing do justice like those weed nights of painful horrible flashbacks pulsing the strobe lights of memory? Is the rave era gone and now I shall drift along the current of chillout and new age? I am okay with my new medium settings. Cautious and trying reserved, gossipy  and bitchy at intervals, funwhore and ribald party animal at dusk. These double natures need time to meld and coagulate into a rounded individual capable of handling the strain and push and pull of twin egos rushing to bask in the limelight, seeing green at each other and playing pong with the fluttery spindly psyche. The wild child confusion boy angelic demon persona non grata photo bombing and sneaking into the party. Maybe it’s wiser not to pinpoint a thing, yourself. Accept ignorance and remain faithful to these principles you grew from seedlings, this value daisy chain bursting for the sun and willing you to get right, do the right thing.

Right now we do what we think is best but never knowing the best. We are all one-eyed kings seeking depth perception and clarity. I think I follow, I go against and reject, I survive and go through motions at the periphery. Life is beautiful a friend of mine says. Life is weird and quixotic to me but I remain somewhat interested. Amid the clatter and waves and turbulence of our species’ clashes and clans there is that nice spot, a little nook or alcove to hushabye theses savage times and salvage time. Again with time, with memories, with rumination. Senility assault me now.

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