In a message dated 18/10/2004 09:14:33 GMT Standard Time, beeso@xxxxxxxxxxx
writes:
Jud:
What does one DO when confronted by an intoxicated loser — a broken-down
skid-row bum?
(1) Does one politely ignore him as Anthony often did - step past the
hissing, huddled, lice-ridden, ragged wreck lying stinking in his own piss and
vomit
awaiting philosophical handouts from a charitable Rene?
(2) Does one ignore the incoherent, half understood mutterings — the
misology, the mispronunciations, the dehydrated yellow skin,
the bloodshot desperate eyes, narrowed to slits with self-hatred, in the
knowledge that its effective life is over and death by alcohol is drawing near?
(3) How does one respond to that which was once a man, for the junkies of
alcohol are like rabid dogs?
Their yellow, dripping fangs can pass a poisonous contagion. It is the
disease of despair and degradation and lack of hope.
Their abhorrent desolation and squalor insinuates itself into the psyche
like some foul, foetid fog, inducing a despair in the self and humankind.
It often invokes in others a form of guilt — the kind of furtive
self-reproach we feel for a pig as it is cast into the back of a truck — abattoir bound.
Should this be allowed to happen? Should the barely coherent offensive human
offal be hosed from the pavement, as they do in the
animal charnel house when it is time to go home? Is not this barely human
ordure with a midden for a mind better kept out of sight — to drink himself
to death in privacy of his own shithole — away from human eyes — that we
might not be subject to this ersatz saccharine sorrow and survivor guilt, and our
sensibilities not chagrined by their plight?
These were my thoughts as I walked back up the drive, having driven the
laughing children to school in heavy rain.
Looking upward I saw the snowflake-white florets of the Russian vine which
clings possessively to the side of our happy family home.
The fingers of the sun had switched on the daytime fairy-lights, [with water
drops for bulbs] in the leaves, which glittered and sparkled in the light
of what had now become a beautiful English morning. *How fortunate I am,* I
mused, *for in another life somewhere in the gun-infested horror
that is urban America, I could be like Kenneth - The illiterate Bishop of
Being, sprawled in some dirty dive clutching a spirit bottle, while his
*church* falls to pieces around his ears — rejected, unloved, despised, pitied, a
failure drowning in his own whisky-tears and self-hatred and jealously of
others.*
The filth spawning filth — the tobacco-stained fingers with their blackened
nails pawing at a barely descried keyboard — the filth — the slime! {shudder]
Maybe there is a God after all? :-)
But if there IS a God - why has he made ME blissful — and HIM wretched? ;-)
For the love of Christ - Seek Treatment!
"The World" is at best an approximation
Judd THE CAPITALIZED EVANS
has no means of approchment to any en-nearment of it
he is only the most ordinary of approximatized ass holes in a world
overflowing with ordinary approximized ass holes
KENNETH
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Regards,
Jud
Personal Website:
_http://evans-experientialism.freewebspace.com/index.htm_
(http://evans-experientialism.freewebspace.com/index.htm)
E-mail Discussion List:
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