Headless Chicken Sea Monster (or the Deep-Sea Swimming Cucumber)
"Certainty makes the world small." ~Brain
Over this past long October weekend, I read D.H Lawrence's Sons and Lovers. I found Gertrude and Walter's courtship through to their estrangement (the first several chapters of the novel describing the courtship, marriage and initial years of the couple who spawn the "Sons") among the most true and, for its detailed digressions, the most stunningly accurate picture of failed marriage I've ever read. Then I thought of our family curse, the Magistrate's curse (Magistrate as a surname (surname as a title)), localized, as it is, to our small corner of the family splay, among the generous variety of European splendor in our genetic and social substrates. A Magistrate divorces. No matter your personal creed or temperament, if you are born as a 'Magistrate', into that surname, that bloodline, you are destined for divorce. That 'failure', or if you are adverse to the criticism or value judgment, that 'outcome', is inevitable. For many years, like most all endeavors of the stubborn and trim, I fought to combat this inevitability through shear will. Belief and love, utter love, and complete belief, almost valueless in its ambition, would overcome. I used to believe that kind of love would endure past all destructive forces, even to a desired outcome that defies the laws and boundaries of society, of nature, and, when bemused to such fancy, of God's own certain warning. Then, as we one in turn learned, all we Magistrates, the natural forces would prevail and the unnatural ones, selfish love (once referred to as 'utter') and misguided trust (once referred to as 'complete belief') would not even provide a temporary respite or shelter from the determined outcome of our predetermined divorce. We, of fact, were born into it. I saw that same drive and derision there in Lawrence's world and I felt it good company ('good', as in familiar, company). The lesson being, for now, be careful for that which you take to arms, either inwardly or outward, for its outcomes and grievances will eventually be the reception for the company you keep.
As I put my force toward untangling that fable, even now from a distant perspective, even having forgotten to the point of feeling cozy among the certainty, I recognize the melody being constructed. I have crafted a kind of song out of necessity, however dissonant, to lure the sirens home. Paul, Lawrence's 'Son', whose curse, almost as similar (for he never marries despite the presence of enduring love) takes its queue, caught on camera, dancing in the deep sea, headless poultry, for a time, in the Magistrate.
AusAntarctic. (n.d.). Underwater Camera Captures “Headless Chicken Monster.” Oct 21. 2018.
Over this past long October weekend, I read D.H Lawrence's Sons and Lovers. I found Gertrude and Walter's courtship through to their estrangement (the first several chapters of the novel describing the courtship, marriage and initial years of the couple who spawn the "Sons") among the most true and, for its detailed digressions, the most stunningly accurate picture of failed marriage I've ever read. Then I thought of our family curse, the Magistrate's curse (Magistrate as a surname (surname as a title)), localized, as it is, to our small corner of the family splay, among the generous variety of European splendor in our genetic and social substrates. A Magistrate divorces. No matter your personal creed or temperament, if you are born as a 'Magistrate', into that surname, that bloodline, you are destined for divorce. That 'failure', or if you are adverse to the criticism or value judgment, that 'outcome', is inevitable. For many years, like most all endeavors of the stubborn and trim, I fought to combat this inevitability through shear will. Belief and love, utter love, and complete belief, almost valueless in its ambition, would overcome. I used to believe that kind of love would endure past all destructive forces, even to a desired outcome that defies the laws and boundaries of society, of nature, and, when bemused to such fancy, of God's own certain warning. Then, as we one in turn learned, all we Magistrates, the natural forces would prevail and the unnatural ones, selfish love (once referred to as 'utter') and misguided trust (once referred to as 'complete belief') would not even provide a temporary respite or shelter from the determined outcome of our predetermined divorce. We, of fact, were born into it. I saw that same drive and derision there in Lawrence's world and I felt it good company ('good', as in familiar, company). The lesson being, for now, be careful for that which you take to arms, either inwardly or outward, for its outcomes and grievances will eventually be the reception for the company you keep.
As I put my force toward untangling that fable, even now from a distant perspective, even having forgotten to the point of feeling cozy among the certainty, I recognize the melody being constructed. I have crafted a kind of song out of necessity, however dissonant, to lure the sirens home. Paul, Lawrence's 'Son', whose curse, almost as similar (for he never marries despite the presence of enduring love) takes its queue, caught on camera, dancing in the deep sea, headless poultry, for a time, in the Magistrate.
Self. Remember Enrico Caruso. OneNote Diction (Audio Conversion to Text). 21 October. 2018.
Una Furtiva Lagrima (L’elisir D’amore) by Enrico Caruso | Free Listening on SoundCloud. (n.d.). Retrieved 23 October, 2018.
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