We donned our sacred face, a comic mask to honour the serious and melancholic nature of the business. Honour: the word is meant to hone our appreciation of any matter so deemed worthy of dusting with red ochre, the colour of the life-bringing fluid. Grandpa said he was tired of the place, too fast was the pace, "Help take me to the cave of my brother, 'Old Bear', so he can partake of my sinews and hair, or chew old broke bones for a taste of the marrow before he too curls up for the coming long winter".
Back to the warm cavish womb, my father he escorted. Quick was his ending and the bear was engorged. We fleetfoots went north when the weather enwarmed, no cave was in sight and the bears were all white. Grandma needed no help, it was clear, she simply took off one day without gear, to visit her sisters and shed not a tear. But my father near drowned when his boat overturned, it was on dry land but still did demand I take him out to a different boat, one staying upright, endlessly afloat. I put on my clown mask because of tradition, my own face was wet and in need of rendition. We set out to sea and on berg we did hinge. The air it came brisk but he felt not a tinge 'cause "euphoric it feels", and pretty damn quick if you undo your tunic and cold embrace fully: on an empty stomach, the journey is easy.
The visitor under ungoodly pith-hat went home with my tale and proceeded to chat "the savage there eat their own elders in feast or leave them out cold, no care in the least". Like Ulysses so missing Callista's good wisdom, and charm, heard what he wanted, returning full-armed. "'Tis better to go with good books full of law, and disrespect others their savage guffaws. Life it is sacred and managed must be, prolonging a pain 'cause death's worse than some bondage or nothing at all in the void, into nothing, a black and everlasting fall: pulling the plug or loosing the rope's an affront against all, depriving us hope!"
The wolf quite attracted to calves' fetal membranes, was taken away to alleve ranchers' fears for futures exchanges, uncertain they seemed. Now cows, when they grow old must labour and struggle in pain on the ground, bruising the carcuss exceeding men's taste, so're hauled off as garbage uneaten, to the nearest town's waste, the flies there a'making (maggots, a bear's once-favoured cuisine) are sprayed with the poison, to prevent a plague in life's stinking prison, all for the glory, great good of a nation, 'cause nature's allegory – now vacuumed and clean – is a bomb's agitation or else it's a dream.
"Nothing's connected, no fear when extracted", enlightenment's learned, "and pain is the standard", we're ever forewarned. Analogy's fancy for amusing small kids, but oldsters know better: expect only worse and should you survive, the party's then festive – because yer not deader – you never did live. As long as you're fettered, the future's the time when your ship will come in, but too old you'll be then, or weighed down all rigid with all of your things. My son said "Oh well, he tried, he sighed and twitcing for long, lay down surprised. He died only after the doctor was called, who said 'if only the car had not stalled, there might have been hope or a miracle cure, alas, Lady Fortune's an iffy affair. A pill for your nerves with a tonic of gin will let you sleep well, till I'm needed again'."
The rope it has broke, we continue to tumble and roll, but off on a tangent in a cognitive fog in the same position we were formerly towed, 'til we slam into an absurdly placed log, and come to our senses for a brief intuition: "just what was 'indebt' and to whom was it owed?"
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