4:19 p.m. - 2005-07-01
The Boxer Rant
Like a weary boxer retreating again and again to his corner for the milk of human kindness kept on hand for such occasions by the two people on the planet with whom I was most conflicted and enmeshed, I accepted what was generously offered. Safe haven. Once again. Shelter from the storm, not to mention the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that I never seemed to tire of courting. Face to the mat. Worn from the sorrow that clung to me in and out of season like a sweaty satin robe. Each round proved more predictable, exhausting, shaming. Battered senseless at my own hand, I rose like a champ for still more abuse. Down for the count, I emerged from the canvas as the crowd gasped in disbelief. Tasting blood, I stiffened instinctively, awaiting the next blow. I had found the enemy and it was me. I could not seem to elude my own relentless glove. I now punished myself with awesome precision. Better than anyone ever could. I knew my most vulnerable spots and wasn't concerned with fighting fair. And still, I claimed no victory. Only defeat, the clanging of the bell providing only temporary solace. A reprieve for the penitent. My parents made no mention of this most recent fall. Silently, they bound my prodigal wounds. Provided tender sanctuary. Restored my birthright. Yet again, they slayed the fatted calf. But I knew this time that I had sinned only against myself and God. My only betrayal of these two gentle saviors, my parents, was succumbing to that irresistible urge to stretch beyond the confines of their thick protective cocoon. An encumbered butterfly, I had hobbled so long in the gravel, preferring approval to flight. A case of mistaken identity, I believed myself earthbound with each subsequent failure. Thirstily, I allowed them to salve my broken spirit with that unique blend of pity and relief that, though well intentioned, served to keep me small and dependent. Sweet repose under their careful watch. This time, my resillience surprised even me. My heart was calloused, but strangely uncynical. Once again, I had survived. The scar tissue was firm and beautiful. Within a week, I was back on my quest. Pandora's own shaman. Diving deep into the terrible cache of emotions and memories in search of my misplaced soul. I found it on Burbank Boulevard, just east of Van Nuys. The building could have been the twin of Kittridge, separated at birth. The floorplan was identical. The pool temperature stayed at 85 degrees all year, cozy as a womb. The manager had the red veined nose of a heavy drinker, but his eyes were a clear sky blue. There was a Ralph's market just half a block up the street. I felt anonymous and free, eating my bowtie pasta out by the turquoise water. Home again.
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