Drunks or Hawks

When I was a kid my suburban neighborhood surfeited me with girls. Toward the end of grade school the society began shoving us into ballroom dances. Then I attended an all male college: meeting women was accompanied by alcohol: bars, parties …

We drank too much, from age fifteen. By my forties I was getting a belly, I was continuously either hung over or tipsy. Business was commonly accompanied by drinks. Pick up a woman, we’d be fully loaded by the time we got to it. Sometimes I’d be so drunk I couldn’t perform, she’d be so drunk she didn’t notice. I gave up the booze: and noticed certain things right away. I felt better, I wasn’t hung over, my balance returned, my courage … What I noticed more slowly was that I wasn’t meeting any women! I wasn’t going to bars, I wasn’t going to parties.

As a kid I’d done a lot of socializing through the church. Dinners, summer camps, convocations of young church leaders … At church camp I always had pussy galore: we’d study the Bible, we’d meditate, we’d pray: then we’d pair up and go off into the woods.

Never mind, what I’m getting to is this: old, broke, broken, I wasn’t meeting any women. In jail I met women but only as pen pals: I flirted with women, but only women who were also cuffed and caged: in a different cage, the other side of military glass. My erotic writing has never been hotter or heavier than when I was isolated from normal society, but my maleness was enforced as solo.

But: the society smashes, then organizes the pieces. I wrote that I was broke: complained bitterly, sarcastically: so the fed broke me altogether; but then the jail fed me! I said I had no food … then they crushed me, then then fed me. It hurt, but I was making them do at least part of what I wanted!

On release from jail I had nothing: but Social Security gave me some SSI minimum. I got food stamps. The fed compelled me to see a social worker: correcting the saint opposing kleptocracy into another one of their endless klepbots. The social worker got me Medicaid, fixed me up with woman, guided me to a senior social: were I began dancing again: and overnight I had a new string of girl friends. Hell, they were all eighty-something, but they were female: and severely under-loved.

Dancing at the senior social led to my teaching dancing at the senior social. That let me to dancing at other venues. And that’s what I’m talking about here:

At the senior social, we line danced, then socialized, ballroom danced, had lunch, ballroom danced some more. But before lunch, we listend to annoncements, pledged allegiance to the flag, sang My Country Tis of Thee … I got women, galore, but this anarchist had to pretend to be a patriot, a hawk: an imperialist mouthing hypocritical democracy. Patriotism was required. Old men need to meet old women. The society accommodates the need, provided you’re a Nazi: or behave like one.

So, I loved meeting a table full of widows at the Senior Social, then also at the American Legion. I danced with Bobbi Jo, my hostess, and with her several friends — Maxine, Geri, Ann — and with widows from other tables. But there’s a price: we dance before a stage with a US flag as its back drop. There’s a mural on the wall opposite of tanks in flames, ships sinking in flames … The walls of the adjoining hall are covered with pictures of military destruction. And those caissons go rolling along.

Last night, Memorial Day weekend, mid-dance, master multi-musician Buddy Conova playing his reeds, keyboards, and strings, Buddy launched a song where we all have to standup, hold hands, and raise our hands each time the US is mentioned.

And I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free …

Huh? I’m not free. I’ve never been free. I was jailed because I fight for freedom, a total failure.

And I won’t forget the men who died
To give that right to me …
And I gladly stand … UP!
Next to you …

And at that “up,” we all straighten, and raise our hands, our hands holding our neightbors’ hands which raise with outs.

People died, that’s true, but to “give rights”? What rights? It’s all wrongs.

But: I love to dance. I love to dance with my beautiful Bonnie. People love to watch us dance.
But the price of admission is patriotism, parroting balderdash.

When the Nazi’s rule, the Christian who doesn’t want to kill Jews must pretend to be a Nazi.
The Nazis stand around complaining about n-s [Bowdlerizing K., 2016 08 03 Offensive terms go dosido in fashion.] I don’t second them: but to dance, to meet women, to socialize — this crushed peacock, now, for the first time in his life, says nothing.

No, this Winston doesn’t love Big Brother, but he’s learned finally to keep his mouth shut: and let the patriots deceive themselves.

Thoreau said that even in getting crushed the resistor is wearing down the machinery of oppression, friction wears the gears. On the cross Jesus used up a couple of Rome’s nails, guided multiple soldiers further into crime, tacked another sin or three onto the Jews’ Temple.

He didn’t teach us love after all, neither did I. But he sure did expose us for what we are.

And so have I. And so do you. And so do we all.

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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