Passion and Grace

I take lunch at a diner in the rough part of town daily, a dump where the roughest of the lowest shit-bags in this city go to eat. I don't bother dressing for the occasion. I show up ready for the street-side version of combat, the general approach I take to going anywhere, which now shows on my face to the point I frighten most people at a glance. And there I was with the crowd who were hanging out slurping soup out of cups, threatening each other with plastic knives, stinking, dirty, drug-addled losers and mental cases choking on the grub that's too cheap and easy to pass up if they've managed to break into someone's car and to make enough cash to satisfy their drug addiction and still have a bit left over for food. OK, the waitress is a genuine hottie. Her husband does the cooking, and he never seems to spit in it. I stay sharp, on my guard, ready for the splatter that comes when it comes, and I'm dynamite on those razor edges, ripping up the scene, living at the max of madness. Most days I eat fast, shoot the breeze with the girl, and head back to work.

After a long life of long and hard roads I eat what I can, sleep where it's more or less dry, and try to stay in one piece as I check out the wonders of the world and be thankful for this lottery winning I have, my existence. Hey! Fuckin' excellent!

I met a client, so to say, at the diner a few days ago. We sat as far as possible from the guy at the table, the one with the $6,000.00 right arm, the $7,000.00 left arm, ex-dealer who has lots of tattooed skulls on his arms, ink blots that look pretty worthless to me. His neck and cheeks we didn't get to the price of.

As I looked at my plate stuff and wondered whether to eat it with a fork or a spoon I looked up and saw my client silently saying Grace. He finished, he rolled a joint, and spit in his napkin before he mopped up his stuff with a slice of bread. The man has me beat.

I've thought about Grace for a lot of years for no apparent reason. I don't just think about it when I'm horking down some bugs or some weird looking lizard or choking on something others find edible. I don't just think about it when I'm doing the Ritz with a girl I like. I think about Grace when I'm grabbing a donought at the desk or when I'm vacantly checking out the ice-box. I don't think about the stuff I might eat, I think about the thinking about the stuff I might eat. I think about the time it takes to think about what I might eat, my appreciation of the fact that I'm alive to eat it, that the food is here and that I am here, and that I can take a moment to care. Even the low scammer I had lunch with has better sense than I. There oughta be a Law.
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Birkat Hamazon ... known in English as the Grace After Meals (lit. "Blessing on Nourishment" ... is a set of Hebrew blessings that according to Halakha are recited after eating a meal....

Birkat Hamazon is made up of four blessings:

The first blessing, which is a blessing of thanks for the food was, according to tradition, composed by Moses in gratitude for the manna which the Jews ate in the wilderness during the Exodus from Egypt.

The second blessing, which is a blessing of thanks for the Land of Israel, is attributed to Joshua after he led the Jewish people into Israel.

The third blessing, which concerns Jerusalem, is ascribed to David (who established the capital to Jerusalem) and Solomon (who built the Temple in Jerusalem). These three blessings are required by scripture.

The fourth blessing, a blessing of thanks for God's goodness, was written by Rabban Gamliel in Yavneh.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birkat_Hamazon
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My kitten jumps on my leg when he hears the can-opener turning, no matter that he just ate. I recall a cartoon of a dog looking at his master, thinking: "He feeds me, he pets me, he loves me. He must be a god." The next panel is of a cat thinking: "He feeds me, he pets me, he loves me. I must be a god."

The time is coming when, thanks to our dhimmi intelligentsia, that we will have to face horrors far worse than anything one would encounter at the diner I go to for lunch. The time is approaching that many of us will have to face men and women who will kill us and our own, and we will have to kill them if we are to survive. I've seen men defeated, seen them run away, and I've seen them captured. Those men weren't necessarily cowards. They didn't have Grace. They didn't have the Law. In defeat they were already dead. They didn't have the Spirit. Fuck 'em.

I've seen strong men go down fighting, and I don't care. They weren't mine, and I don't care.

I've seen the good die crying, and it confuses me, it upsets me, and I don't like it. I don't like it a lot. Where and when I can I make effective changes to the order of things.
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"Acknowledge me, my Keeper."

My kitten has no sense. I play on the stereo Bach's St. Matthew Passion, and the boy is dumb and sprawling on the carpet. I breathe hot breath on his belly and he purrs. The music comes from nowhere and ends and is no more. My kitten lies on my chest and pads at my throat. I wonder if he hears the music at all.

"Lord, is it I?"

I close my eyes and I think about thinking about.

"Around Thy Tomb here sit we weeping"

I open my eyes and see a fly crawling across the sandwich I didn't bother finishing at dinner time. It sits on the plate on the table on the floor on the ground somewhere in the universe in the darkness.

I take dinner in the rough part of my life, a dump where one of the roughest of the lowest shit-bags in this city goes to sleep. I don't bother dressing for the occasion. I show up ready for the darkness and the exhaustion, the general approach I take to sleeping anywhere, which now shows on my face to the point I frighten most people at a glance. And there I am with a crowded mind slopping around thoughts in a bucket, thoughts threatening each other with worries, stinking, dirty, violent memories and mental breakdowns too cheap and easy to pass up if I've managed to break into someone's life and to make enough to satisfy my curiosity and still have a bit left over for a grim smile. OK, the Life is a genuine Mystery. The plot is a page-turner, and it never seems to turn too sour. I stay ragged, on edge, ready for the nightmare that comes when it comes, and I'm tired-out on those razor edges, ripping up the air, living at the bottom of my mind. Most days I sleep short, wake a lot, and head back to work.

After a long life of long and hard roads I think what I can, guess at where it's more or less probable, and try to stay in one piece as I check out the wonders of the world and be thankful for this lottery winning I have, my existence. Hey! Fuckin' excellent!

I had a dream, so to say, in my room a few days ago. I got as far as possible from the vision at the threshold, the dead standing there in the shadows, skulls and ink-blots, a price paid I didn't get to the price of.

As I looked at my face I looked up and saw myself silently saying "Damn!" I finished grumping, rolled over in bed, and spit in a napkin before I mopped forehead with a piece of cloth from the floor. Man, I was beat.
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I've thought about Grace for a lot of years for no apparent reason. I don't just think about it when I'm dreaming about bugs or some weird looking lizard or being choked by someone others find friendly. I don't just think about it when I'm in bed with a girl I like. I think about it when I'm catching my breath sitting on the side of the bed or when I'm vacantly checking out the book case for some lines of poetry. I don't think about the stuff I might read, I think about the thinking about the stuff I might read. I think about the time it takes to think about what I might read, my appreciation of the fact that I'm alive to read it, that the poets are here and that I am here, and that I can take a moment to care.

The time has come now, thanks to our failure to care, that we have to face horrors far worse than anything one would encounter in my worst nightmares. The time is come when many of us will have to face men and women who will kill us and our own, and we will have to kill them if we are to survive. I see our own defeated, see them run away, and I see them captured. Those men aren't necessarily cowards. They don't have Grace. They don't have the Law. In defeat they are already dead. They didn't have the Spirit. Fuck 'em. Even my cat has better sense than they. I play the Passion.

"Lord, is it I?"

There oughta be a Law.
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