Ping Pong with Saint Harold
I started to flinch internally at the idea of anything remotely dealing with it. I saw it and wondered about what had gone so askew in my life to need such a ridiculous item around me at all time. Then I laughed out loud at it and wanted to toss it in the sewer or in the frozen foods section where it belonged. I figured if I could just fling this worthless crazy thing out into the street and watch it scream and kick and then die that I would somehow be happier. I wanted to watch it rot with it's matching it so that the two its could go hop skip and die together. I always imagine both its somehow smelling of garlic, cigarettes and cheap wine. The kind of smell found on the bankrupt of life. It would never come back. It was dead. I was happy.
I had no idea what to think of her when she walked in to the bar last night. I had no clue what to make of that woman. "Woman" even the word sounded strange coming from a boy like me. In the back of my mind it was all sexual. There were eons of sex flowing through her walk to the bar to order a drink. There were miles of flesh intertwining as she threw her hair back. In that moment I looked down, took a drag off my cigarette, shook my head, and laughed. I had no intention of ever knowing who this woman was, simply because I myself had no intention of ever being with a "woman".
The dog with the sad eyes came up and licked my hand the same way he would lick the wounds of a saint. But a saint isn't made out of wounds. His soul is procured because of mud and dirt and sacrifice. It is the eyes of the sad dog that make men into saints. It is the heart of the man that makes the sin come from the blindness. The dull hum of the world turning on axis is what the saint is forever trying to quiet. A dog knows sadness the way the sun knows life. The sagging eyes of an old dog can tell you all you will ever need to know about love and being a saint.
