Pool_2

Gavin was not his rebel father nor grandfather nor paternal anything. He was his mother, a poet, a romantic being forced to become his father. All those childhood warnings playfully instructed on his dad's lap, often as ditties and folk song, as he described them Ply of garbled child's lyric, Syruped savored, Ever sweeter, Swallowed mouthed in mindless meter. Fateful loops of ornament, Harmonic, Waft intoxicant, Issue unforeseen Though dearly heard, Reprised uncountenanced. It was song, to him. His father's voice to a motherless child. He heard the love in the voice but passed on the message. That meaning of those words was whipped into his flesh in that foul place. He was torn as to who he really was. He still doesn't know. He asks, Is all wisdom pain? From this and nothing else obtained? Are blameless failings ever fast? Deficient sheds or dice to cast? " John paused, "Clearly, there's no going back. Look at his themes. They question duality of self, a single individual who is the one from two, two parents, two natures, two identities, two creators. Whose image? How is a single nature possible. Don’t they clash? Must one, only one of the two, by necessity, by imposition of external realities, impose itself on individuality? Just when does two become one? At what point is the other duality of nature and nurture resolved by the singularity of necessity?" Macaluso was making guttural throat noises, unconsciously, as Mina was stroking his hair behind the ear. He made those sounds whenever deep feelings were stirring. Her stroking was now reflex. She knew that somewhere in that far away mind of his, even though he didn't feel it, something hurt. "My father was a total ass hole," the waiter innocently plopped an introspection into a momentary silence. He was smiling tight lipped as faces turned to disapprove. Shannon got to him first, "That’s no way to.."