Howard Moss, in his poem, Horror Movie, wrote, "beginnings spin a web where endings spawn." I would have preferred a transposition reading something like, "endings spin a web to spawn nes beginnings," or words to that effect. It's like the dandelions that transmogrifies into perfect orbs staged to submit to the wind and spawn. The eternal 360, the paradigm of life itself.
When I was a little boy, circa 1966, I was seated in the back seat of a sprawling, two door burgandy Pontiac Bonneyville with a black vinyl top with Jan and Lindie, with Ben and Dee up front. The surroundings escape me now, but I suspect that we were riding a dirt road on a farm. Simultaneously all eyes were fixed on a mother cat and her four, maybe five little kittens. All in a row. Ben grabbed his rifle and without exiting the drivers' seat, shot them all, one by one. I remember his wife, Dee, picking up the hot casings from her lap and quickly exchanging them from one hand to another because they were still hot. The memory stops abruptly.
That kind of unimaginable cruelty, in this case committed by a "friend" of the family in front of their half son, effectively pisses in the psychological pool inside the brain and the drain never empties. I also remember him watching baby seals get clubbed on the head while I was in the room. And even a video of a heart surgery. The Mexicans call it sangree. Boys and girls know it's blood.
My father figures: Ralph, Billy Joe, Wayne Potter, and significantly, Ben. I thought that he was a good template for my posterity. I was already violent. Thus the fit.
