Saturday, September 15, 2012

Saturday Night Soup for the Soul (42)

here was once a certain person, who I thought was my friend.  I realized some time ago to my great sorrow that he was not.

The past several weeks, I have  watched from the sidelines as he upped and abandoned his most lovely and rock solid faithful wife and kids for a dirty and insane (mental, emotional and /or spiritual insanity is after all an absolute  pre-requisite trait that one must possess before they surrender long-term their life and soul to any cult, religious or not) Seventh Day Adventist cult whore. 

So everything good that I ever witnessed him say or do, and there was overwhelming evidence suggesting that he was rock solid in the personal integrity character traits that matter in this world, are now all  called to question.   Demolished is a better description of what has become of his reputation.

My subject, we will call him Frito, has used the same fig leaf that scoundrels everywhere have used thru the ages, and continue to use today.  He is playing the false  I am with the only true church and with the only true Lord and the rest of you are with Satan” card to try and mask the fact that at his bedrock soul, he is, in the words of my brother who figured this out three years ago, "just another Puerto Rican shit bag" man-whore.  

Though I long ago realized that there was "something a bit off” about him, I never in a million years thought he would exhibit such selfishness and cruelty as I have witnessed these past several months. 

El Güebón.  ¡Que bruto!   Yo sé como bate el cobre.

His widow who I will call Grace (I call her a widow because the man she loved is now dead and has been replaced by a Seventh Day Adventist cult man-whore) is devastated. I had gently warned her a year ago that one of the other fat slob cult whores was licking her chops like a glowing crimson-eyed she-devil starring at Frito and Gracie as she danced with her husband in their home. She dismissed my worries as a figment of my imagination
Oh what are those hills yonder, my love
They look as white as snow
Those are the hill of heaven, my love
You and I'll never know

Oh what are those hills yonder, my love
They look as dark as night
Those are the hills of hell-fire my love
Where you and I will unite

Now seeing this transpire, and witnessing Gracie’s pain has pushed my own buttons and raised some childhood issues.  My own rotten and selfish father (and believe me, he got exactly what he had coming to him in the end) abandoned my mother, my brother and myself when I was 12 years old, on CHRISTMAS DAY, 1965.  Yes, you read that correctly.  He chose Christmas day to abandon his family to seek his own self-fulfillment.  To this day, I have zero tolerence for being subjected to any type of selfishness from others.  Both my father and apparent dumbass Frito.

Like all whores, they live off someone else and use everyone to get what they want for free.  Frito did not take off his mask and show his true colours until he had the next woman he would live off lined up.   A dirty man-whore to the core.
Broki, bregaste cajita e pollo.  ¿Oiteh?
When I was with Gracie a week ago and she was on the verge of crying, I hallucinated my own mother’s face on hers for a short moment.    It is always unforgettable to see one person’s face superimposed upon another’s.
DREAM. I dreamt that I was in Gracie and Frito’s downstairs bedroom.  Frito had ram shacked the room, stealing everything that was not nailed down including the bed and leaving bits of busted up debris everywhere.  He was sitting on the single remaining wooden chair dressed in his blue collar work clothes. 
His face was pale, gray, like a ghost or like someone who was of the living-dead.  He had no expression and he sat motionless in the chair.
As I looked around the bedroom to survey the scene, I saw that the carpet was stained with dirt, especially where their bed had once stood.  He had stolen the bed.  I tried to find the words, tentatively at first as I was unsure how to ask the question.  Then I finally asked him “Frito, what made you hate her (Gracie) so”?  I awoke.

Oh twice around went the gallant ship
I'm sure it was not three
When the ship all of a sudden, it sprung a leak
And it drifted to the bottom of the sea
And now let us break bread and share Saturday Night Soup.
1. House Carpenter a/k/a "The Daemon Lover" by Bob Dylan is based upon a 16th century Scottish ballad.  It can be enjoyed as both a literal story and as a biblical parable.  The literal story tells of a man who returns to a former lover after a very long absence, and finds her with a husband (the house carpenter in the story) and her children.  He entices her to leave them all  behind and come away with him, luring her with many ships laden with treasure. Together they board one of his ships and put to sea…

The woman regrets leaving her children but does not regret abandoning her house carpenter husband.  From aboard the ship, her spirits soar when she spots snow white hills on the horizon.  Asking her companion lover what they are, he responds “Heaven” and informs her that they are destined to never know the place.  She then spots dark and foreboding hills on a different horizon.  Asking about them, her loved responds that “Those are the hills of hell-fire my love, where you and I will unite”.   The ship then sinks and they die together.   That is the story told by the song.

But there is parable lurking inside the song.  A parable that concerns choices ones makes between truth and falseness.  The House Carpenter can be seen as a stand in of “Jesus Christ”, or more broadly as “things which are true”.  The stranger seduces her from The Truth and she runs away with the Great Liar and Seducer: Satan. With him, she perishes.

This song was to be on Bob Dylan’s debut 1962 LP but did not make the cut.  After circulating for decades on bootlegs, it was finally released in 1991 on Dylan’s The Bootleg Series Volumes 1–3 (Rare and Unreleased) 1961–1991.

All of this makes it's way into this week's soup. You can get your bowl of Saturday Night Soup by clicking the jukebox.

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