for my father
"Theology, ethics, history and everyday experience
teach us that to achieve equilibrium there is not
an infinity of secrets; there is only one: submit."
-- E.M. Cioran
I am inside the memory of an event from 1973, which features the vomiting dive of a prize boxer. He had once shown unwavering courage and loyalty while in the squared-circle of a prominent infant, and he had apparently rivaled the legends of his day, many of whom he had opposed in furious contest. There are even stories of his submission victory over a certain 350 pound veteran of the local air force.
This memory might very well differ from the actuality, as the boxer is portrayed in brown instead of black, and his signature zigs and zags and diving thrusts are not as well animated in this silent mind's eye. Also, it is not clear whether he stands on 2 or 4 legs, and therefore, he might not be responsible for the holes in the wall which ascend to the ceiling and through, into the belly of an airplane.
But, what is quite obvious is the stature of this being, as he towers over even the tallest of Butchers, measuring many unbelievable distances greater than those with the misfortune of proceeding him.
Regardless of the potential for common ugliness, his demise is portrayed in the complete color spectrum, where vomit is the glorious definition of pink, and internal organs dance red from his mouth, and his eyes are cold blue question marks when he begins to drop away. The 8-track player accompanying the incident clicks rapidly in malfunctioning musical recognition. A disharmonious dust is swirling about the room, stirred active by the collapse of the famed pugilist, whose last and disastrous blow to the stomach was not delivered of any well-matched opponent.
[A silence is observed with orchestral eyes.]
I am only a kid, parallel to a missing foreman, witnessing a moment that could not be seen well, and I am hearing the perfect seizure of a man's life coming from beneath the beloved boxer's body.