Artwork © Richard Spisak

 

Chapter 24

Unlike a dog seeking an impression of itself onto the clay of grey matter of easily forgotten memory or Neanderthal in biographical etchings of the animals he hunted on cave walls in an inscription of color that will be eventually effaced (nature weathering and making bland any colors not her own), I seek to be forgotten as much as remembered. The world is too much for me, or at least this violent corner called America that I have returned to. This I know; this I write.

Every year pushes me into realms I never quite envisaged myself as crossing: a return of the exile, the molting of youth. As Seneca points out, it is hardly an injustice to experience the subtle diminishing of virile being when all who are privileged to live lengthier lives experience waning and eventual demise; still, it is hardly progressive or constructive that the natural course is to diminish memory and then terminate and decompose the experienced and the wise and to begin again from scratch with the infantile and the clueless who have to experience it all anew.

And old as I have gotten–I don’t think I look it and for the most part (this being an exception) certainly don’t feel it–I still seem to find myself in altercations, and in this case, with my nose bleeding like a teenager in a scuffle, and liquidated, the red blood suffusing into the grey dirt under a picnic table in Waikiki just hours ago. And because of this altercation and a bit of vertigo afterwards, I stumbled around for some time like an old man with swollen lip and nose about to teeter to the ground if not the abyss. In times like this I almost wish the adventure of being alive would cease. Violent as the whole thing is, from microorganisms to man, each killing for survival as though by killing it would go on forever, to cherish life is to cherish violence. As such I ponder it, I ponder me.

Hobbes’s social contract in place, violence that is in the outside world is minuscule when contrasted to the inner core of man, the inner core of me, repressed energies, sexual and otherwise, needing eruption. Had Amerigo Vespucci mapped out the consequence of 17th century ships of acquisitive peoples coming to this land that he imagined as existing, perhaps it would be less populated and more civil than it is now with competitive strife being a less perfected art form. The subconscious, being alone, is wild terrain. Bridges between segregated islands of individual minds were hastily erected long ago in language to force mutual cooperation—cooperation ever resented, with most human beings bombing these bridges daily. And this country is run by the tyrant Trump who like all tyrants has a soul that Plato would say is so far out of alignment that instead of being run by ambition and greed like the country itself that has its eye on taking over Greenland and getting into a war with Denmark to have this acquisition is led by a campaign of revenge. But then is my “soul” all that well aligned? What misalignments are embedded into the characters of the great souls known as gods?

© Richard Spisak

As to the agent and the incident that bludgeoned me, there is a certain justice and even an erotic thrill to be had in a Polynesian Apollo smiting me–my face veiled in blood. But then veils are for shame that one wishes to conceal, and there is little shame in a visceral reaction to exploitation, even if it was only for the sake of a feral Hawaiian chicken–the word “only” superfluous when this chicken feels fear and exhilaration like all animal life, all animals in life, in Honolulu, the land of ocean sunsets and bloody faces.

The justice of god chastening a mortal notwithstanding, the punishment would have been more warranted had it been a reaction to last night’s libation and indiscretion. Last night, in a certain respect, it was a six pack and a roll in the hay, as it might be said colloquially; but in such a roll there usually is some embracing. In this case, there was none, making the desperate rendezvous in the back seat of a car a more absurd and vile form of connection than most. Was it not an attempt to plow through the void while allowing the void to remain intact? I, an introvert, have found it torture to listen to the boisterous noise of such creatures with their rustic words, sports talk, repetition of their mundane, quotidian affairs as if it had real value to the world, boasts of prowess in making money and rising in stature, their grand purchases despite the high prices of things, how indispensable they are in their roles in society as to make great sums of money to have these purchases. But one cannot live on a deserted island all his days, and this island of Oahu is far from deserted with plenty of individuals to roll in the hay with. Osculation, that simple kiss–not that in this case there was one–is more a childish hunger to experience all the pleasures of life than attraction to the flesh one wants to bite into.

Had the incidents been thoughtfully considered–the chasing off of these five ten year old boys who then demanded the return of what they claimed was their chicken after I released it from its shoestring bondage; the boys eventually leaving only to return with reinforcements that doubled their size; their more peremptory demands for the return of the chicken, and when their attempts to intimidate were to no avail and simply laughable they brought in you, oh shirtless Polynesian Apollo–then actuating this bludgeoning would not have been needed.

© Richard Spisak

The punishment would have been more effective had this beaut-brute used verbal reproaches on this Thanksgiving day instead of blessing me by sandwiching his fist into my nose three times. Furthermore, his oration would have been more eloquent had it been something other than “Give them boys back their shoestring,” and his vengeance would have been supreme had I told the deity to “fuck off” insolently instead of uttering a monosyllabic “No”.

But then there is no systematic and thoughtful execution of a physical assault. Violence is closure of the rational mind so as to be a puppet mimicking stereotypical responses of one’s gender in the hope of perfecting it to be a “real man” plus being manipulated by myriad invisible gossamer strings of forgotten memories of ones father, mother, brothers, and a vast array of other bullies dimly felt but collectively that which one seeks vengeance against projected onto a specific target.

Oh, flawed god, had you smote me because of the previous night it would have been a bit more sensible, but failing that, let me do it for you. That I should be so desperate for connections on this foreign land of this American tribe–these people, these compatriots with a language the same as my own, it is true, and thus no different than myself, so I should think but don’t quite believe–that I would, upon occasion, frolic with one of them is blasphemy like the mutiny of one’s solitary ship when planks are damaged, the whole structure weakened, and maintenance, when tossed about in waves, seeming too daunting. But then crude are all the tools of connection: this stabbing or being stabbed repeatedly by this organ of urination, this organ of creation. Like friendship which is the concoction of the mind to disperse loneliness when times of being with these agents of pleasure are brief and rare, so the pleasure bonding is a consequence of needing to enjoy the violent intersections that beget further generations.

 

Steven David Justin Sills is a poet, novel writer, and essayist. His book of poetry, An American Papyrus, is in academic libraries predominately, and a scanned copy is in the Internet Archive. Early works can be found on the University of Pennsylvania’s Online Book Page. Sills has a Master’s degree in Great Books of the Western Canon (seminal and influential great books of philosophy, literature, science, and social sciences from ancient periods to the late Enlightenment). He lives in Honolulu where he teaches and experiences life on the edges. His essay is part of a philosophical treatise

Richard Spisak began his artistic career as a light artist in the Lumonics Studios of Mel Tanner, a legendary Light Artist. After serving under Jack Horkheimer as a planetarium operator at the Miami Space-Transit Planetarium, he left to begin traveling with Lumist Kenvin Lyman, whose show Dazzleland Studios traveled across America. Richard later worked as a Laserist with LASERIUM and Laser Productions, served as a technical producer for the festival company PACE Concerts, and later as operations Manager and Senior Producer at WWHP and WTCN-TV in Stuart Florida.

Richard writes for Theatre, TV, radio, and the web. He published two short story collections, Two Small Windows, in a Pair of Mirror Doors, and Between the Silences. Followed by his poetry collection 7370 Allen Drive and the recently released STONE POETRY. Richard also produces “POETS of the East,” a televised webcast featuring poets from across the globe.

 

Chapter Guide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty- One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three