Thursday, April 28, 2011
I'm a jackass maestro I'm a jackass. That I’m a jackass I’ve had a clue to but that I really was a jackass took a bridge, some whiskey, couple of pills and a desert rose maestro, yes, a desert rose.
Why, maestro, why, do we not see the consequences of such rash and bashful actions is beyond me, maestro, is beyond me. The past couple of days and nights have been my longest in recent memory. Regret, angst, hopelessness and that herd of negative contemplation engulf me. They engulf me maestro and I feel like a jackass for having acted like one or rather been like one. The world doesn't revolve around me maestro and if that were the case I should be happy on the periphery.
But we pine for what is not maestro and now my body; speech and mind are in places scattered and battered. There is no unison and dear maestro; I’m falling to bits and pieces, much like Sam Bicke, who invokes a certain maestro to fill in his unspoken angst. Mine, I feel, is directed at a personified idea of how one should really live life. But there is a way out even for the untouchable, maestro, and mine I know, is within myself though the catalyst rests in the desert rose and what the desert rose had to tell me, post the the 'Jackass on the Bridge' episode.
The desert rose, maestro is a flowering plant that blossoms in certain tropical and semi-tropical places of the earth, as in Africa and Arabia. It is also a mineral formation that takes the shape of the flower, such as a rose. It is also a person who's learnt the art of giving, and is in her own manifestation, joy immaculate.
We met, maestro, on a dry wintry night in what used to be a tavern for the single and the lonely. They’d appropriately named it “The Twilight Lounge.” My 20-year-old car was getting a deserved face-lift, maestro, and I was walking that mundane evening downtown to hitch a ride home. The lounge was by the way and we’d popped in to see who could give us a ride. There she stood, maestro, like joy uninhibited, gliding and springing from one end of the lounge to the other, making small talk and singing the karaoke, every track no doubt resounding from and connected to some experience embedded somewhere in the map of her life.
If she was the desert rose then maestro, I was the Himalayan thorn. We got along comfortably enough to be comfortable on one branch. I do not know from wherein these destinies stem from maestro but I was happy enough to have had that opportunity. Matter of fact, I was delirious maestro! So delirious that it scared me. This is what fear of losing anything precious does to a person maestro and I was but a sentimental fool and look where it got me! I lost the focus maestro. If I’d had hindsight for foresight I’d not have been in this mess but isn’t that the story of our lives maestro?
Now that I’ve seen and stolen a glance at that rose there’s nothing I can feel except loss on a personal note and this immense respect borne out of recognition. I’m a jackass maestro, for not being able to see all that. Now I know why the thorn exists side by side with the rose- its not to be an obstacle as much as it is to protect the rose, from would be naysayers. But we of the mortal cloth- what could we know maestro? What could I know maestro?
The world is not to blame for the circumstance that surrounds us maestro; it’s always been that way. We are each in a situation of our own making precisely because that’s where we need to be. I’m learning maestro, not to forget to remember this simple observation that we are capable, and that finally all our dreams do come true in the end, no matter how tailored. It gets clogged and blurred now and then, by temporary loss of reason, which triggers actions, which ironically enough, goes back to tell you and remind you of the same things you should or shouldn’t do.
And that, maestro, is basically what’s known as the vicious cycle of life. Although, maestro, there’s nothing vicious about life and how beautiful life is could also be in direct proportion to the suffering endured.
We are what we are maestro and that’s why I say, with no offense to the animal, that I’m a jackass maestro and she, a desert rose.