once upon a time, there was a neighbor of mine who...
CLAIMED TO KNOW WHAT BILLIONS...
CLAIMED TO KNOW WHAT BILLIONS...
OF OTHER WOMEN WERE NEVER smart enough, or enlightened enough to understand: Her view was that Sexual intercourse was the essential act of male domination, created by sinister male cabal to hurt and humiliate all women and thus maintain power over them forever. "There are only fuckers and fuckees and the sooner the fucker's books are burned and they are castrated, the better," she once announced at a neighborhood party. Women were, in her view, essentially children, and they must be shielded from harm, corruption and filthy thoughts. It didn't matter to her that the vast majority of women, even many proud feminists, didn't see the world the in the way that she did. With the same amazing knowledge of the entire human race that allowed her to speak so glibly about men, she dismissed their views as well. She calmly said that these women who took the side of men were "nothing more than house servants who side with their masters."
Her name was Gertrude, and I had the misfortune of having her living across the street back in the days when I resided in Brentwood, California. Other than her husband, Orville, who once informed me that she would not allow him to divorce her and that even though the marriage was devoid of Sexual intercourse, she would take him to-the-cleaners and destroy his reputation if he ever even thought about it, making him wish that he had never been born; Gertrude was the saddest human being I have ever met.
Absolutely certain of her rectitude, Gertrude was totally free of doubt, equipped with an understanding of human beings that had eluded all previous generations. A woman without joy or wonder. Not laughter. Not love. Not the simplest luminous pleasures of a summer afternoon. There was no room in her dark vision of the world for Fred Astaire or Lucille Ball or Maria Callas, for the music of Mozart or the art of Claude Monet. There was no fantasy or magic, no awe in the presence of human beauty, no desire for spiritual or carnal wisdom. She lived her life in an airless, sunless world. I heard nothing from her about decent husbands and loving fathers, of families that have triumphed over poverty, or mothers who have lived hard lives with their intelligence, heart, sensuality and pride in tact.
Above all, in her sad and bitter world, there was no wide tolerant understanding of a species capable of forgiving our endless gift for human folly; and it was a few months back when I read in the local press that her husband, Orville, had shot her as she was taking her usual afternoon nap, stood over her until he was certain that she was dead, placed the revolver back into the drawer next to the bed, drove over to Cap's Oak Street Bar and Grill for a good steak dinner and a couple of drinks, then called the police and turned himself in; and I could only imagine him, as he sat in his cell awaiting his murder trial, parroting the words of Martin Luther King, saying to himself: "Free at last. Free at last. Thank God almighty I am free at last..."
...And although I do not condone murder...
...May God forgive me...
...I could not help but give a small smile...
Her name was Gertrude, and I had the misfortune of having her living across the street back in the days when I resided in Brentwood, California. Other than her husband, Orville, who once informed me that she would not allow him to divorce her and that even though the marriage was devoid of Sexual intercourse, she would take him to-the-cleaners and destroy his reputation if he ever even thought about it, making him wish that he had never been born; Gertrude was the saddest human being I have ever met.
Absolutely certain of her rectitude, Gertrude was totally free of doubt, equipped with an understanding of human beings that had eluded all previous generations. A woman without joy or wonder. Not laughter. Not love. Not the simplest luminous pleasures of a summer afternoon. There was no room in her dark vision of the world for Fred Astaire or Lucille Ball or Maria Callas, for the music of Mozart or the art of Claude Monet. There was no fantasy or magic, no awe in the presence of human beauty, no desire for spiritual or carnal wisdom. She lived her life in an airless, sunless world. I heard nothing from her about decent husbands and loving fathers, of families that have triumphed over poverty, or mothers who have lived hard lives with their intelligence, heart, sensuality and pride in tact.
Above all, in her sad and bitter world, there was no wide tolerant understanding of a species capable of forgiving our endless gift for human folly; and it was a few months back when I read in the local press that her husband, Orville, had shot her as she was taking her usual afternoon nap, stood over her until he was certain that she was dead, placed the revolver back into the drawer next to the bed, drove over to Cap's Oak Street Bar and Grill for a good steak dinner and a couple of drinks, then called the police and turned himself in; and I could only imagine him, as he sat in his cell awaiting his murder trial, parroting the words of Martin Luther King, saying to himself: "Free at last. Free at last. Thank God almighty I am free at last..."
...And although I do not condone murder...
...May God forgive me...
...I could not help but give a small smile...
No comments:
Post a Comment