Give me not for my Birthday. Speak praise of my parents. They made me.

              How does one thank their mother and father for making them?

              Where does one dive into their murky depths as well as the most brilliant points of existence? An existence based on two people mating and creating you?

             Sex is such a violent act in itself.

            The penetration of a female from a male.

             Blood pressure goes berserk as if climbs human Alps, heart rate rises rapidly, muscles expand and constrict quickly. Increased respiration. Involuntary movements and vocal response. Reaching male orgasm, sometimes his messengers hit the mailbox, other times, not.

           Swimming in pitch darkness, trying to find a ladder for lifes sake, one half of what will become YOU splashes about madly as time is of the essence. Mere flashes of electricity give this half of you a chance for sight.

            Upstream, downstream and rogue waves toss about viciously.

             At this point, you’re nothing more than a mailed letter amongst millions.

          In a different place, another land, a village adjacent,  lies an egg. Lonely and waiting to embrace the vigilant  voyager that truly has traveled quite far as an intruder.

         Secondary penetration occurs. Explosive, yet shielding at the same time.

            A mans seed crashes the shell of a woman’s egg.

             From this set of things, we are made. Truly blind chance.

            My birthday is July 26 1962.

             My parents created me some nine months before that date as they connected themselves with love and passion. Knowing my late parents as well I think I did, I can imagine their movements, hear their panting tones, quivering voices, their eyes locked supremely to one another.

         My father fired a fastball, mom caught it.

         And I started from there.

          I, oddly, some might say, sickly, can see this as plainly as the screen before me.

          Yeah, I don’t view things like others do. For that I am grateful and proud to be that way.

           I really don’t care if others don’t give me things on my birthday. It matters not to me in the slightest on this.

          On my birthday, I can only thank my parents for having really good sex to make me happen.

        Thank you Mom and Dad! This is your day of celebration, not mine. To me, as you both created me, a sublime team effort amazing!

         I miss you both so very much. Mom: the touch of your fingers coming or going away from you even if only for a few hours. Dad, the brush of your arm, elbow, shoulders much the same as moms. Seeing your eyes as parted, the smell of instance Coffee and L&M cigarettes lingering in the air like warm sunlight, the tones of your voices. 

My Father. Many times a Santa at many places. Mid 80's with a Pentax SLR.

My mother and eldest daughter Rachel as a baby. Mid 80's SLR.

 

        I have little clue how you view my life since your passings, but that's okay. I get inklings now and again as my mind does mental calisthenics. I have no doubt you will kick my ass when I see you both again. I have this coming as it's well earned on my part.  You never asked for perfection, and I really have that covered!

totdat wir зустрічатися again!

Mark William Darus: Proud son of Marion F and Ted Darus. 07252013