Resurrection and Frogs

Resurrection?




My wife is a child of an alcoholic. Her mother would drink herself into a coma for months at a time. She was only ten when it started, and it never abated. Her dad couldn’t handle it and split. Till death do them part? He eventually drove himself into a ditch, spilled his brains all over the steering wheel, and she got a new liver paid for in cash and is now drinking it to death too.
But ironically that isn’t what is killing my wife’s mother; it’s the doomed dream of her dead husband no longer loving her. But he stopped loving her long before he was dead. But she was dead long before he stopped loving her.
So my wife has some issues.
I married her to save her. She needed to be healed, and in some way I did. And then I abandoned her just like her mother and father. I stopped adoring her, and it was too familiar a death for her to bear. So we died, but now, we know we died, and we’re no Jesus Christ, but we might just not be breathing, and if we’ve already buried the corpses, but they’re not really dead, then I wanna exhume us.
I want to kiss her one more time, and I want her forgiveness. And I want her to know that I am not her mother and I am not her father, and that I love her. Such as I am, I love her.
And then, when I let myself feel things of that ilk, it hits. Remember, she doesn’t love me.







Frogs





This is what I do best, gravitate to the sadness, because sadness is very strong, and of all of the feelings a creeping, crawling, grabbing, flailing, stabbing in air, shit to the fan throwing idiot can have, sadness is the best for art. And so if sadness is what I inadvertently choose, then what chance do I have for happiness? I don’t think I like it. It’s trite, and if you find happiness, and try to hold on to it, it will, there can be no doubt, die. Like keeping a frog in some little plexiglass series of chambers. I liken the frog and it’s false habitat to a relationship, eventually outgrowing the chambers, but not able to admit it, because of the fear of what might await them outside the plastic prison, and so accept it, and give up, and ultimately live for the sad little frog food that comes to them at the whim of the plastic tube God, or, the creator, whoever that is, whoever it is that has made us so afraid to leave our tubes and chambers, lined with little algae ridden pebbles and fetid cloudy water, our jobs our yards, and our lives, the only environment we ever knew, our homes, our marriages, our little prisons.
And so we wait for frog food. But it can’t compare to flies, grabbed in midair with free tongues. Do frogs get tired? Tired of trying to escape? Does one ever get tired of hoping things will get better? I’m tired. Sleeping dead tired.