I do not stand anywhere today speech making. I was just on my hands and knees washing the fake wood plastic floor of my premanufactured home far from the Sandy soaked estuary where I would gladly be winding down what has been, if nothing else, a long, strange trip. 

             Every moment we make choices, I made mine, or so I had thought for the longest time, with far too little oversight, mentoring or parenting. I had skimmed Adam Smith, and replaced serious study with work. I never saw the invisible hand bent over a sink pot washing or gutting fish on a stab netter. 

              I self identify non european. My genes suggest me a fraud, and I do not deny it. The estuary won the battle for control that my parents abandoned after dog training the three oldest into white elite culture, where they made whatever thier vision of what that was magically come true. All millionaires now, living the lives they believe they made Trump like for themselves. One is an actual Wharton MBA, who spends much of his time in the English countryside fancying himself some sort of high born. Which, of course, he was. 

               We make choices and I chose the blue crab and flounder over beef Wellington, little neck clams over Yorkshire pudding. I chose work over study, and nobody stopped me. Some tried, as I had a gift for language...not to be honed in class but heard from kitchen help. My public school days were naptime before work. I passed anyway. 

                The older kids were crushed by their loss of status as the estuary welcomed me with open arms. What was happening to my parents was Job like, and they crumbled wonderfully under the weight of it, defiantly until the end...separately. I ignored the pagent for tides and marshland. 

                  I battled and lost time after time, efforts to modify my behavior into conformity. I was angry, confused, and outmatched by an invisible thing so big most cannot imagine, that lived right up river, but was lord of all. I had no choice but to feign submission, which was required. Everyone faked it...and eventually so did I, not for Viking appliances or Land Rover’s but to learn how to coexist with and maybe subdue the beast that lorded over us all...crabs and clams included. 

                   The MIC has many arms, but the brain was up river...and out of my league. I was not David, or Saint George in this epic. The beast became family, replacing my parents who gladly let me go, if they even knew I was gone. I acted and was rewarded. I strayed and was punished. I understood finally that the invisible hand had the beast by the throat, and that the head had been starved of nature’s breath, but still it held enormous power. 

                    I know this beast better than I knew my own father, but I will not not harm  it, as the beast is Nature’s work not mine. I wait for Nature’s breath to find her way to equilibrium as I wind down holding high ground, writing bits and books about what I almost know. 

                     Nature is reality, and reality is infinite. You can’t hurry love, or justice. She will be coming around the mountain when she comes.

            I’m not driving.                     

                    

                   

                   

               

Views: 47

Comment by J.P. Hart on December 8, 2018 at 2:12pm

Seamstress and me
are packing for the Painted Desert...
read your entire blog at all hours
well yeah, life is not a Folgers commercial
we'll get through this
we're human beings
We've commissioned a jumpsuit tuxedo for Galahad with a Brillo Box decal across his broad shoulders
Our shepherd pups
Sunshine and Shadow
are pensive - grins and growling great expectations! Bark! Bark!
fatting - cute as a kid's patent leather tap shoes over white soxs
shivers in the cold - already retrieving pine cones
from the pitch and toss
of brown leaves

Comment by Robert B. James on December 8, 2018 at 10:11pm

J.P. :  Painted Bird ...a good read. I’ve been across, in the Crosstour...when it was new, all wheel drive, flash flood over the brandy new door handles and all. Barfing golden escapes in thunderstorm, etc. I’m already in the hills, tucked in for the long winters nap. Puppies! Old Crows hunt with wolves. Safe travels to all. 

Comment by Tom Cordle on December 8, 2018 at 10:42pm

I never saw the invisible hand bent over a sink pot washing or gutting fish on a stab netter.

True dat. Anytime I ever saw the invisible hand, it was either in some workingman's pocket – or it was a balled fist up his ass.

Comment by Robert B. James on Thursday

TC...yup.!

Comment by Robert B. James on Thursday

TC...yup.!

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