for Cory
Not long ago, but likely for ever, sitting on the beach, enjoying that stench of skunk, smoke blown free from kids upwind, I turned to give them my smile. Intentionally. Not caring whether they would see, but just to give them my energy. Hello, freeeeeedom come. And I did that for me. Coming my way I saw two girls – young women, really – skipping down the beach. Oh happily. Splashing running playing holding hands laughing. Pure joy to see. I didn’t know, were they Europeans, fast-friends, lovers, what.
Yet it crossed my mind to wonder. Had to think. Examine, why that questioning? Do I question hand-holding when children, or a man & woman? A woman & a man?
Wondering, then from where in the miracle of memory did that questioning percolate?
Huh! Am I not in control?
It is, after all, my mind. Not.
No, not really.
I drive, yes. But I don’t choose the fuel.
Or the foolishness.
I make the actions, yes. But I must work, too. Hmmm.
Dad. That angry sometimeshating father. What would Jesusdad do?
“That’sdisgustingthat’sthat’s… Why, I’d…”
Enough. No one deserves to hear what he’d say.
(Perhaps you know already.)
But for me to say then, as often I would, again & again. And again.
Sure, he’d hit me. Often, hard.
The smaller I was the more it had hurt.
The price of the honest son.
I’d spoke truth anyway. Always.
Why? Dunno. No, I do: because it was the right thing,
I’d Say, “You remember that parable about the prostitute?”
“No.”
Dodging blows, “Dad, do YOU really want to throw that first stone?
WHO are we to judge?”
He never knew. No.
Then one Christmas. Older, married, baby boy of my own. I was present. But did not buy presents. Wasn’t yet making with my hands so, no “handicrafts.” I reflected how “poet” is ancient Greek meaning, “I make.” Well, I was making translations of ancient poetry: Songs, forming the heartrock foundation on which the troubadours, Dylan, Beatles, & Rolling Stones all built their art. I gave my little books & explanation. I made story. Translations of that ancient Greek, mostly Sappho. Amazing Sappho, mother of all poetry. As gifts were opened, “Everything we say about love is a debt paid, with interest, to Sappho.” I said that & more.
Here we get to see dad in all his artless glory. Dad who I admired loved hated so f—king… it still brings me crazy. My amazing dad who gave me the introduction to working with my hands & also, yes, surfing. Dad taught. Me. Tell the truth & be honest; but honesty costs. Did I say crazy?
Song story short. Sappho lived her entire life on a tiny Mediterranean island, ‘Lesthvos.’ That word landed on the mixed up shore of English as Lesbos. Lesbos, where they called each other Lesbians, same as we, in California, all call each other Californians. This was proudly explained on gift giving Christmas morning. (Afternoon? Not. Drinking dad’d be.)
Next day. Lines on the horizon. Coffee. Then dawn. Alone. Getting ready. A door shuts softly. He comes, hands full. Angry writhing paper slips. I think, “Fortune cookies.” Misfortune really. Perfectly excised was every word from every copy, every instance, of “Lesbia.” Slips of ignorance flutter to the floor. A price is paid for truth telling. And he’s a slave still.
Ragdolled. Tears welled my eyes. Hugged him, “Oh dad.” Only I knew: get air. Hurtbanging brain. Oh, good, I got downstairs without event. Wet wetsuit. Shivering. Board. Wax. Myself? Maybe, as I ran out the garage. Crossed the street. But not. Train. Who-Oooo-Ooops. Crossed the tracks, crossed the highway, beep, beep, half-stumbled all the stairs. Infinite steps down just to get back up, get my own air. Headhigh Swamiis alone, nearly. “Hey. Hey bro. Hey, Merry. Back, dude! Hi. Hi. Hi.” Me myself alone not back yet in me. “Never let others,” he’d say. He knew the rules but never how to follow.Whoosh. Tears before a sea of. Sadly glad to be my free. Whoosh. Own myownself. Know: telling, but no, no win. Whoosh.
~jwl
https://www.jonwarrenlentz.com
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2016-0701, 11 & 20 v7.0