Seeping Black Ooze
I want to write about an interesting revelation I had about a friend of mine from the Army. I thought about writing a little character sketch from a first person point of view, as if I was him. I tossed that idea, because this interesting revelation I had could NEVER be one that you make about yourself. Hmmm, maybe I could do it third person. I wrote out a couple of sentences from a third person perspective and it didn’t sound right either. From the third person it sounded too cold, calculating, and smug. This revelation I had was warmer more personal. Even though I realized that I had stumbled upon one of the BIG ONES, a flaw so deeply embedded in our psyche that it escapes us and our viewpoints, wherever they may exist, I could not find a way to write it. I looked for a perspective, but none could be found. I wanted so bad to SHOW this flaw, expose it by proxy, let the feeling of the thing be known, not told. But I couldn’t find the words. I suspect it must be told.
He works so hard to keep things from seeping in, he forgets from time to time, things seep out.
Something about his behavior always rubbed me the wrong way. I noticed that this person, a ridged believer in temperance and piety, would make comments, inappropriate for one who holds the Truth. Sometimes they were bigoted or sexist. The key though was that he didn’t see them, didn’t recognize them as enemies. His enemy was alcohol, tobacco, or dance. Keep those marauders at bay and his homestead would be safe. Meanwhile there is this leak that oozes out leaving a stench to which, I imagine, he has become accustomed.
I note sometimes how he looks down his nose at me. The last time it was for drinking and smoking a cigar (tobacco is a big no-no). He likes me, but I sense the distain from time to time, the superiority that comes from a hurler of stones rather than a builder of homes. A hurler of stones marches out with his "creed for life" in the guise of conversion, but really ends up being a quest for validation. My way is the right way… isn’t it? And some fear seeps out, little bits of that nasty bile, choking him, sending him into convulsions. In his writhing, he casts you out. Get thee from my home cursed Satan!
A builder of homes, though, invites you in to sit a spell. Come as you are he says, and doesn’t mind that you throw your feet up on his coffee table. Afterall he built it to stand the test of time, and he’s not worried. He built it once, he could build it again.
It’s an ugly sight, let me tell you. I’m just glad that I don’t have any of that shit leaking out of me. You’d let me know wouldn’t you?
Thanks.