Blog Archive

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Skin

Love Lost Well: The man had killed the thing he loved And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword; Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh; for each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

Retreating into the cotton folds of his mantels, Paco settled into a torpor of his soul; perhaps a chrysalis from which he would emerge, or into a tomb from which he awaits recreation, he was not certain, but when his transformation was complete he would assuredly be a new creature whom would learn to love again. Paco felt like a worm, none the less. He had fought long and hard in the Army of One that is love. For in love, the austere offices of it's highest functionaries were sparsely populated by field Commanders, Captains of sea going vessels, and lone Admirals that rarely recounted openly the massive loss of their soldiers and sailors. How can One be left remaining as sole proprietor of a love that was lost after sustaining such heavy casualties in battle that they Alone remained to carry on the War? They were not abandoned nor left entirely by their charges for they had, to the last, fought and died in service to this Cause. "Still," Paco muttered in an undertone as the warm blood seeped slowly from his wounds into the ground from which it had come; "still," the flame began to smolder in the wind and a cold evening rain beginning to descend as Paco's life ascended from the smoke and ashes of his former life, now a wreckage in the mud from which he was being pulled by some field medic's Triage team. Paco's eyes winked and dimmed as his field of vision closed.

What a fine line there was between Love and Hatred, like the line between oil in water. And yet, what specific gravity that oil acquired over time as absence distilled the Hatred into heavier than water Contempt and Betrayal which darkened and settled to the bottom; precipitated like the snow from rain. Always, in the glut of agitation in Paco's futile existence they called "life," he was shaken and stirred so that for a time Love and Hate were indistinguishable one from the other, but always the dark congealed sludge of Contempt lay along the bottom collecting the atomized beads of Hate until the most heated and bitter arguments no longer boiled away. They smoldered continually, like some burning pine stump dense with pitch and choking acrid smoke that burned again in the back of the throat and eyes, unable to be fully extinguished. If Love were a flame, and Hatred the hot coals, Contempt was eternal smoke. Paco's lady, whose image he carried like a banner, betrayed him repeatedly and so thoroughly, that her token scarf which he carried everywhere into battle was now a humiliating flag of surrender and a discarded rag of Contempt.


Not unlike Don Quixote de La Mancha, his Archetypical Anti- Hero, Paco's mortal remains were for the final time conducted upon a litter from the field of battle, hopelessly scarred and broken of heart and spirit, a Comedy of Errors at one and the same time with a Tragic and woeful countenance of a man that, having seen his reflection clearly for the first time, discerned that he was old and dissociated from the reality his Enemies beheld. Paco's armor bore not the patina of green copper but the rusted and crumbling remnants of sheet metal. His helmet was not gold and silver crested but merely a re-purposed chamber pot; and the sword, a broken and twisted stick. Paco had seen the worst of battles to be sure, but they were all the delusional dissociation and projections of a man apparently ordered to self-destruct by charging at imaginary giants Alone with outrage. His Orderlies carried Paco's carcass from the field like a scare crow with half it's stuffing trailing behind and dropping along the way. In the Triage, Paco's foot was tagged with a black badge: In death, the last sense to go was hearing, and what Paco listened to was the tense recension of chatter as the living moved on to other more important things. "Still," someone softly and mournfully whispered, "still, Paco, there is Love." Then, Paco fell into an exquisite peace and a rapture of silence, at long last.