“Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves”
I think the technical term you want is “internet psychosis.”
I, on the other hand, am an aspie…like Dylan, an autistic grandee of the royal nonesuch.
If my girlfriend dumps me she’s a psycho.
If she decides to stay she’s an exulted aspie…
My wife is outside at midnight giving life support to one of the raccoons she adopted over the summer. No shit. She tames wild animals, teaches them to understand korean and behave.
The fattest fucking raccoon I ever saw in my life. No wonder he’s having a stroke. My wife kills the things she loves.
Her blind dog has diabetes.
I’m an alcoholic sadist.
Yet life goes on.
Sorry to hear about your break-up.
Did I ever tell you about sharing a beer with Peter Falk back in the day while he filmed the Brink’s Job on the streets of the North End?
I was a young lumpen prole working a warehouse gig for three bucks an hour on Commercial Street.
Falk was a pretty cool guy. Very salty down to earth.
Lots a sailor talk. He seemed a bit envious of us working-class gunks. He insisted he could only have one beer but it was obvious he could have used a few more. He stood on the sidewalk peering quizzically into the warehouse through his one trademarked steely eye just like Lt. Columbo, as we put on one of our best after-lunch-on-payday beer drinking performances ever, interrupted only occasionally by our Director, a good-natured displaced Georgia cracker named Grady, who would order one of us to re-arrange and consolidate a few more of the hundreds of partially-emptied palettes of floor tiles so we could free space for next Monday’s newest consignment.
Mr. Falk shifted his weight from one foot to the other in visible discomfort during the lengthy delay as the crew meticulously prepared a wintry illusion in the dead of summer. If they couldn’t capture the twelve second take before the quality of the sunlight changed they would be forced to come back tomorrow at the same time and try again.
I’d never after feel so free as I did in those days and now it’s gone, it’s all gone: Boston, Peter Falk, the drunkenness of youth.
UPDATE!!! Jeezus, the cops just came. She called the freaking pigs because of the raccoon. The Sheriff comes up with a rifle. Fewer things more unsettling than a cop roaming around your space armed to the teeth.
-Raccoon’s sick ma’am. We’ll have to shoot him….
Course, that won’t do. Frau Tale is crying, sobbing now. No one can cry more disconsolately, more forlornly, more instantly, than my wife.
-Why did I have to see him?
Her wail carries across the hush darkness of the woods as the sheriff trains his obnoxious flashlight on the dazed animal, who walks in circles, stumbles, falls flat, gets back up only to fall flat again and tremble.
-Get up baby! Get up and run away to save your life!
Frau Tale is really agitated. The Buddhist monks taught her as a child that she must remain disconnected from the ritual of dying in all its forms. She has never attended a funeral in her life. She apologised when she told me that she would not be able to attend mine, even.
Finally, the copper turns to leave when I tell him that he won’t be able to shoot the hapless coon in front of my wife. Truth is, I’m not so keen on witnessing the little bugger croak either.
-No, no. I’ll just put him in this plastic bag and take him away.
-Uhm. Please. We need to let this play out, officer. My wife…
He shrugs and trudges back up the hill to his police cruiser. I realise that he’s not such a bad guy. It’s the uniform and the .22 calibre rifle in his right hand.
Maybe its me. Something powerfuls bothering me now, too.
Frau Tale sends me back to the house to google “raccoon distemper.” I better log off now before she realises I’m wasting my time blogging instead of being useful.
Too late! She glides soundlessly through the door as is her manner and stands in front of me as I frantically try to switch sites.
-Call the Sheriff back. He needs to come back. Quick now.
And like that, as gracefully as her quiet entrance, she disappears out the back door.
October 11, 2012 12:09 AM
It is my sad duty to report.
Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword. Some kill their love when they are young, some when they are old. Some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the hands of gold. The kindest use a knife because, the dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, some buy and others sell. Some do the deed with so many tears, and some without a sigh.
For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die.