Saturday, April 20, 2013

Enemies and Friends

I sometimes imagine that Buttercup was alive OR the whole experience was a test, a fabrication from my constant pleading for God. And God answered with the very test of faith that is most poignant - belief through misery. Bea asked me recently why I called her Butter, I lied and said it was a flower just like Rose was a flower, Buttercup and Rose. In reality it was from her soft hips and wet cunt, she was like butter and where her wide hips met her soft cunt, she parted with perfect viscosity. I was drawn to her and she to me probably from some mutual seed of boredom or more probably because I acted like some kind of cowboy and she wanted one. There's a picture I posted in that time, "From Hand to Cock" after her surgery when they removed her eye and she was home and feeling better some. It's of her hand gripping my engorged manhood. It's the most real thing - she took what she needed after all that misery. She took what she wanted and left the rest. What a woman. Eventually, as I tell it, poverty took it's toll and my strength let out - not my inner strength rather my belief that this was a true love. There were huge differences between us. I just gave her what I meant to give my wife before that which is the hardest and most difficult part to transmit is this. We each want our stories to have integrity and heroism and so often they don't but are instead replaced by a desire to survive and a lack of anything better to do in such times. Poverty takes its damned toll, strength lets out and I lay alone through all that awful time, literally moaning through the morning hours. Others took over. Z, if anyone, knew the real story and I hated him for it. For not being a saint and correcting the wrongs and healing the heart. It was more like this, I gave it all I had and was found lacking.

When I first arrived in Kosovo it looked to me like a huge Native American reservations - dusty and poor - with a few cities here and there barely rising up through the dust. When I met Bea I was months into it having suffered every beginners mistake in the land of dust. Like most I wandered in with all my broken things and settled nicely into the broken cracks of the place. And the broken cracks sent out tendrils to reach up and root me in like weeds in the sidewalk. One war rolls into the next. It wasn't long before Bea was pregnant. It wasn't much of a choice really, I'd been bulldozed so many times this was the end of it. So, as a living, breathing thing still moving forward, there was no hesitation. Let it come. I once told Billy, my confidant and fellow inmate in the bughouse, that demons can not cross the big waters. That oceans are too vast and those awful creatures that come to feed on misery need fire under them so they let go somewhere off the coast and writhe about for more misery to find back in their homeland. "It is true," I recall him saying through a laugh in our last conversation before he disappeared. Time passes. Now the sun rises over the land and the big water is to the west. Now there's the little one and a good moment to begin writing again. Again. Friends and neighbors. Enemies and friends. Good friends. Good to see you again.

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