The Balancing Act Reaction

Above Niagara or between the, then standing, Towers. What's his name? Skinny, older fellow. Mid-Aged, or slightly younger, at that time, at least. He pulled the balancing act. No net. Just a pole for support. A flimsy, 12-foot long pole. 1970's, I believe. The decade doesn't matter, nor does the century, millenium, so forth.

There he was. Human air walker. Footsteps and stepping on the clouds. The cable, the line of achievement, or the ground, the flat, stinking, smack of non-success.

I was once almost swallowed by the ocean in an amateur surfing mishap. I once had a 40 mph car collide into my driver-side door while I was pushing 60. I once and twice and thrice and many more have been self-poisoned or peer-poisoned out of sometimes love, sometimes hate and pure destruction. Stomach in mouth, behind my teeth. Curled and tucked away under the deck like a fightened, dying rodent. So many times I have found sanctuary in that smoldering shower that always too quickly turns cold.

I've at times found God and It gave me guilt like tons and tons and I said, "Well, damnit. Here I am. Send down that bolt of lightening you son of a bitch and get it over with!" I've said this only to wake up in the morning zapped to all hell but smiling just the same. Guitar in hand, smelling my first sip of coffee: black, with little sugar, maybe a splash of milk. A muffin, when I'm ready for it.

I sulk and get it over with. I think of great and horrific misfortunes. I wake up and I wake up again and love the mornings with all my heart and cry on these days to see the sun pass through the sky. I think of all of these things, plus that balancing act and I laugh and can't believe I'm alive.