This is the Work-In-Progress of what I expect will be a pretty lengthy piece of writing.

                                                                 Once it comes to me.

                                                A Life in The Day

                                                        (A Parable of ‘Back in the Day’)

              Parable: an allegory or a story intended to teach a basic truth or moral about life.          

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Back then . . .

In His beginning there was The Great Light.    However,

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  Before His Beginning, there was The Very Beginning, at which time, The Great Race occurred.

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  Unbeknownst to Him, preparation and tutoring for all novice participants in this highly   anticipated compete – which was ALL of EVERYTHING that would EVER BE – took place in Spermatogonia where, after a period of some seventy-odd days of unmetered conditioning and resting and the harvesting of his 23 unique qualifying characteristics, He was unknowingly ushered to perform against millions of others.

A great urgency needed fulfilling.

Timing was critical.

There would be but one victor and one victor only.

Ring a bell?!

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    Precisely tied races between two Spermatogonians were as acceptable as the singular – too, were the very rare and uncommon three-way-ties.

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    No ribbons were awarded and no fame achieved.

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    The untold prize was continued existence, realized by triumphantly bonding with a She-Mate of her own twenty-three unique, earned characteristics. Official confirmation of their compatibility was anxiously awaited; kind of like a wedding – and meticulously prepared for, whereupon they, being male or female, were awarded their gender identity by also winning a traditional and cherished appellation, in keeping with their originating generators.

Daughter, Son of . . .                           

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   All other participants in the Great Race were rejected and flushed unceremoniously into a harsh and seemingly cruel oblivion, never to compete or exist ever again.

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                                                            Thus came The Great Light.

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   The Great Light was first perceived by Him as the pinkish dimness which had suddenly replaced the warm, nurturing darkness from which he had emerged. It was accompanied by harsh, new-sounds and strange voices which were much amplified from that former, softer, muffled cooing he had developed under. Gone too was the comforting warmth of his former seedbed where floatation had morphed into restriction and further, the need for escape.

    It was a blinding continuation of his own private Genesis and when he first opened his eyes to it his very first remarkable expression was a squint, which soon enough softened to a look of curious rejection and a closing of the lids. There was an ignored tugging sensation at his belly and once wrapped into a soft, warm facsimile of his former dwelling, he was cradled to bosom where he briefly suckled before drifting off amid the excitement of his namesakes and the assurances of medical attendees.

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    Mostly ignored by his happy parents, but completely unknown to him on this day, was that the world he was born into was furiously abustle with recovery from recent, nasty goings-on. It was his birthday after all. It was Octoberfest – as celebrated with copious amounts of beer in now gentle Germany – but just a co-incidence all the same.

    Finally, THE Son, after three consecutive daughters, which fulfilled mother’s conjugal obligations, thus denying him the chance for a little brother or sister. They fretted no longer about the recent warring past which had momentarily made them wary of the future.

                                                           Masculine Virility affirmed!

                                                               They had their son!

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    He was born into the hubris of a feverish post-war redemption where men’s cigars were smoked with beer or whiskey and women’s cigarettes with wine or highballs while dancing to an upbeat hit song of the day, ‘Mr. Sandman’ by the Chordettes, a song well worth a listen even now.

    Walls were re-painted to blue and futures were imagined. The family surname would endure. He must be guarded against all comers and taught the proper ways of preservation and endurance and fortitude.

   But.

   All the while they remained ignorant of certain other’s predictions and dreamy imaginings and conspiring’s which were being subtly and secretly painted and sculpted into their unconscious perceptions by certain of the elites who scoffed at absolutes as they employed their cherished and validated knowledge of historically predictable outcomes. Fear and media and misdirection the proven tools of their artistry. 

But then, was the . . .

                                          Right Here Write Now

   So here he is now.    In 2023.  Writing.

   There are raindrops on his clothes. 

   At 68 years he has come to appreciate a short walk under the oaks that border their home by the bay.  Nice summer rain scenery, thriving vegetable garden, robins finding worms, an ebb tide scent and hot coffee.

    And there is a their now.  For 38 years.

   From that then to this now a mutual communion with a singularly exceptional woman and forsaking all others. And children and grandchildren.

  And pets and flowers.

   On his stroll he is writing these very words into his memory for not all writing is tech and not all writing is labored over. On a good day like this one he can search more clearly and retrospectively back to the initial prompting spark that had paved his road and how it wound to where it is right here and right now and you read it right now as though literature alone was designed for time travel.   

  That makes you think, don’t it?  Where had he been and what had he seen?

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  Babies are sponges as it is said. They can soak up things just by sitting there.  As toddlers they come rapidly into transforming by simple stimulation of their five senses. Sight, smell, sound, touch and taste. Sponge to vacuum. And they become a store of perceptions and they live in the vacuum they create and all of them are equipped to shut the vacuum down in order to focus and converse and participate. 

   If they chose to.

   The smarter ones generally become the smarter ones by pressing the off button.  They become good listeners.

   In my own case I learned to listen by being told to.

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   Way back then . . .

   When I was coming on three and not too far into the first chapter of these writings, in the late summer of 1957, I was drawn to sample from a large can of white milk with an irresistible aroma.   

    “Hey! Spit that out Jesus Christ!”

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      Dad is a tall man. Hard jawed and strong looking.

   Handsome when he cleans up.

    He was in some ways the man I, the toddler, would become. Set in his ways as he tries to stay as busy as possible and carrying that certain scent of vigor common to the working man. A man confident he will not be less loved by his better half should he slip up sometimes. A description of the man the Chordettes yearned for and that his wife keeps herself and their house very well groomed for, for he too cleans up nicely.  A presence if you know the type.

    However, in this particular early verse he is the worker busying himself with painting the front door and window frames. And then and there he had shocked me to immediate attention, appearing to me as though shot forward from Psalms 139:16 to fight peril and save both of us for my future.

  “That’s poison, silly arse.  Don’t swallow it! Come here where I can get that out’ya. Listen to me! That’s poison! There’s lead in it! Go get your mother.”

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   My first memory, much, much later- meaning now – to become my first memory of my first memory.

   Vacuum de-activated.   

Psa 139: (16) Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.

To be continued . . .