Eulogy for the Living

He would have hated that picture. Hid his vanity like a neo-nazi hides a swastika tattoo beneath the collar of a shirt. You could always tell his true colors by what he proclaimed disgust with – that poor ego repressed beneath moralistic vows he never meant to take. And he hated to know it, because he never knew it made him irresistibly human. If he had known, and just swallowed up his walking contradictions like the delectable morsels they were, like I did, he may not have felt so naked, he may not have reached to cover his shame in most peculiar ways.

Yes, a true poster-child for Egomaniac with an Inferiority Complex, that one. God’s gift to the world, dressing down his beauty only to come back with a furious vengeance for the lack of recognition. He could praise you like a Queen only to tear you down as a criminal peasant, fanned and plucking grapes amidst the harlots-in-waiting surrounding his pig-iron throne. Who could resist an ill-fated bow to such an enticing sovereign? Gifted with an unnatural portion of ability, enough charm to beguile the robes off of nuns…and the cunning to convince that he was seduced! Pure rage seethes at the thought of his tricks revealed, like a magician whose bacon relies on sleight of hand and a credulous audience. What he doesn’t know is that he is admired for his craft, rather than scorned. At least by one…me. The Eve to his Adam, absolving him of his fall from grace in her most enthusiastic leap. No rest for the wicked, but plenty of sex. Adrenaline tempting piety like a play-it-safe over cliffs. Chasing waterfalls is child’s play when you have the grit to jump them. And you always did, my friend. And I had a jolly good time jumping with you.

Where do we go when we find that life bores us? And how shall we play with broken equipment? Our hearts are now whores we have lent out too long – we can win the pity of the church ladies, wrap ourselves in sweaters and shame, tell tales of redemption to the ones coming up behind us. Or we can leave our shame at the door, put down the goddamn glue, and let the pieces of our hearts rest where they may. You can find an island and tan your salty skin, and I’ll be chopping wood somewhere in a smoke-soaked flannel. We’ll know where to find each other, but we won’t try. How’s that for serenity?