Today is my very own " Trinity Sunday "...tis a word i am very fond of, or maybe it has simply lodged in my mind too buggered to fall away, down past the ticking clocks own valley of death. Where old words no longer used fall a part, disintegrate within the tangled weeds of school boy dreams.As i watch the purple veins continue to creep up my legs,each vein a story, perhaps i should name each one so we can journey together as friends rather than look at horror each time i climb out of the shower.Perhaps that was what my old friend King Canute was really doing on that distant shore Centuries ago even in the dim candle light his own trinity Sunday must have drawn his breath as he counted his own purple veins. And that old school boy story told to us by tweed jacketed rusty old teachers that he was trying to turn back the tide was simply a cover up over the issue of purple veins, perhaps the teachers back then did not want to shock us as to what to expect when the skin begins to sag, crease, drive tram lines across once blessed skin, the fortitude of dreams countersigned by demons now in old age whom have crept from the bedroom wall paper of youth to ride within the mind almost daily, a baggage, a burden,i recall how so very impatient i was to gain adult hood the dream of doing what ever i wanted has turned out to be simply HA.
The man made whips of life on beaten flesh the thongs of fantasy still so strong are no comparison to the whips from society's golden glow of the word normal a word now so bandied about that what ever normal once meant,has perhaps been lost from those distant shores of King Canute.