An Antephialtic Sabbath

I remember Sunday afternoons. They've been crystallized in brain cells, impossible to repeat.

Church was a prerequisite for lounging on the couch with Dad. Mom couldn't get me to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like normal kids did, but I'd wolf down sardines and Saltines with my sole male role model. Childhood is a time of emulation in its most comedic form. Life gets more perverse as the cans and communion cups pile up through the years. It seemed that "Stand By Me" played on Channel 11 every other month. That adolescent quest became a form of pop-culture folklore. Rays of orange sunlight would pour in at low angles through the windows and all would be well in the world, at least until the school bus made its rounds on Monday morning.

Fast-forward fifteen years and the imagery gets bleak. A man without a father fumbling through young adulthood. Unchecked debauchery of Gomorrahan proportions. Hangovers so bad that legs are nearly useless. Sunday afternoons in bed with sour whiskey on the breath and sour women driving home from an evening of regrets. Sleep is the best option and water can't work fast enough. The words of long-dead men fill the few waking hours until the time comes to drop the novels and pretend to be fit to pull wrenches on Monday.

Now they're not so polarized. God is arguably dead, but we understand the intended purpose and find our own replacements. Father figures abound and brothers conjure themselves in the strangest of ways and places. Protein comes in multiple forms, some more appealing than others. Bottles are reserved for the coming of company. Dirty laundry never goes away, but its washing guarantees a break from the race. River Phoenix is now dead in reality as well, but at least we had him for a little awhile. Now, more than ever, the back ends of guns and pens feel like home.

There's good news for most species: The sun has not burned out yet.

Currently reading:
"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley.

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