Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Meaning of Limp & Flaccid

Sitting in a home that isn't my own surrounded by artificial light and the deafening silence of peaceful sleeping persons whilst pondering the nature of capability and its irreverent twin helplessness; a notion my lion heart does not easily embrace, I can hear only her tearful confused words uttered in a place that isn't her home,

Why am I always doing what other people want?  I am a good person, why am I slapped around and left? Why can't I live with you?  Why can't you take care of me? I wish I were just buried in a hole, left alone and forgotten.

I sit here dumbstruck with only my limp and flaccid words... this is all I can do.  Asking the same Why she asked.  Why is she left alone with no one [worthy] to care for her?  Why cannot I rescue her and give her peace, love and comfort in the last years of her life?

Amputated by my failures, my frailties, I cannot fix what is permanently broken.  I cannot heal a mind that genetics have ravaged.  I cannot maim her perpetrator.  I cannot convince the legal system to move its feet and right the injustice.  I cannot pray to a God, who remains so silent, asking where He's been all these years, hearing with deaf ears the cries of so many and doing nothing.  The law remains resolutely certain a Husband is always the one best equipped to care...even when that care becomes a blow, a choke hold, a push.  What do black eyes and neck contusions matter when the victim cannot even remember what he's done, when no one was there to see, when the legal system is so twisted it cares only to protect itself from itself?

Like a sick and twisted version of, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to here, does it make a sound?"

We are all bound by our choices, it would seem.  Even when those chains become death sentences.    She married an evil man.  She stayed with the man.  The grandmother and the grandfather that raised me.  She used to protect me from him by bodily interception, her tiny frame between me and Goliath.  Her sparrow heart fluttering, her bird voice becoming a lioness roar.  "You will not touch her!"  Will I be arrested if I do the same?  My own lion heart roars at the thought.  The fucking thought.  What is thought?  Nothing.  Just mental constipation.  Until then, I sit here with my erectile dysfunction words and watch my wheels of thoughts spinning in an imperfect circle.  All arriving at the same point.  Watch her die.  Not today, not tomorrow but someday.

My mind is utterly dumbstruck.  I'm scared we are all dolls, till the end and my eyes keep searching the Heavens for something resembling comfort, an answer to the chaos of nonsense.  I'm left with only these words, these lyrics.  Are we alone?  Are we just electrical synapses firing in the dark of the night?

It's tricky when
You feel someone
Has done something
On your behalf

It's slippery when
Your sense of justice
Murmurs underneath
And is asking you.

How am I going to make it right?

With a palm full of stars
I throw them like dice
I shake them like dice
And throw them on the table
Until the desired constellation appears
And I ask myself:

How am I going to make it right?

Image: Hans Bellmer Poupée

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