I remember Charlie. He was stolen from a house of posh people, where my mother cleaned…She couldnt stand seeing him constantly attacked by the Collie. Which wasnt a playful jousting, more a mauling, yet the ginger menace fought fang, whisker and claw over and over again, refused to give in…It took the posh people a month to ask my mother ‘by the way…have you seen the cat’…No, she hadnt, of course…for Charlie was blossoming and blooming in the countryside, firstly taking over the felines, causing them all to cower, no matter the wounds, then sitting proud on the drive, smiling at the fox as it flew by in a flash of orange and grey and desperation for survival, and snarling at the beagles, as they ambled by, followed by whistles and red coated cunts on horseback, blowing whistles and horns…I watched him in the first sunshine of Winter turning SPring, cleaning his hind, a bee landed, which he looked at quizzically, pondered, then crunched in his fangs, spat out, then continued cleaning where he had been disturbed from…His scrap with a badger left him yellow in legs, poisoned, yet he survived and continued…and remains to me to this night, an inspiration of never giving in and always giving his all. His credentials were never in question.
I have come to accept the imploring routine is futile, when it is proffered with fondness of any depth colouring the feeling realm soft and beautiful. Or uneasily spitefully forged out of trying to hide or mask or alter the overt surface of the same…Likely such a stance has more potency when dealing with enemies who have always been or long suspected as enemies. Love meeting anything close or related to Hate, is a far more powerful collision than mangled love meeting mangled love. And people need to be shaken at their foundations, so profoundly startled that all eyes are blinded by the light, to wake from their long ago decided upon paths.
Love begins and ends with Charity. Regardless of my inability to avoid pouring myself out towards anyone and everyone, when I am doing this I am opening myself up to others, in ways which some more easily, and I suppose fairly, regard as egoism. Yet they are wrong. The more I talk without anyone else talking, when in company, the more I open myself up to the humans…hopeful in my deepest of depths of solely a semblance of solidarity to be found and felt with the audience. I am seeking their Charity.
This all seems too personal, not to concerns of myself, other than the angst it causes me to ponder how others could read and wail. Nonetheless, I need to continue this striving for reflecting as honest as the forest, something of the plight and fight of a weasel dressed as a man…