My Camelot

 “Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot” --Alan Lerner, 1960

1960 was an interesting year. It was a year in which I realized that I was unfit for life. I had tried to survive without food, without soap, and without love, to no avail. I had been spit on, cursed, and jilted. I failed in my first job of any importance. Alcoholism was my constant companion. I heard of Camelot, but it meant nothing to me. My only saving grace was that I voted for John Kennedy, and Jackie was also fond of the title Broadway play. So what has changed?

I suppose the first thing of any note is that I am still here. Beyond that, I’ve matured a little, and no longer have lowdown self-esteem. Those changes are not due to my bank account which has increased by the average princely sum of $216 annually, That comes to 59 cents per day, none of which was invested. I now really like all the characters who were in the Broadway hit, “Camelot,” even though all are now gone except Julie Andrews. And Camelot is still that beautiful, and imaginary place where life is almost perfect. So I have developed a little culture. Still, if ever I needed a place like Camelot, now is that moment. And I have kept my secret from peering eyes despite humanity’s proclivity to slam doors in my face because it isn’t attached to a 6’4”, 210 lb. frame and an empty head. My place does not welcome even one of them with those dimensions.

Before I reveal more details about my Shangri-la, let me state a bit more about events leading up to my newly-found circumstance of part time contentment. First, life owes me nothing. I learned that many years ago. Regardless of how long or earnestly I work, my gains have been offset by a larger number of disappointments. But instead of bitching about them, now I shrug them off. Humanity is not at all concerned about my state of mind, just as it does not care about my bank account, or the vehicle I drive, or whether I love the world or hate it. Still, I have been dealt cards from a stacked deck, carefully stacked in such a way as help create poverty, keep me there, and drive me up the wall about things I care about. Every time I have sent out a message about how to change things for the better—not for me but for humanity—nothing comes back, not even an echo.

My place is my welcoming space. It is an enclosure (aka a lanai) that is 14 ft. by 28 ft. It’s 392 square feet that is neither heated nor cooled. It is uninviting to look at lacking good taste, but it is my space, and possession is 9 points of the law, or so they say. It has a TV, a couch, a thick blanket, a heavy-duty workout bag, and few other inconveniences. It is where I dream, or fantasize; sometimes where I write, but mostly it is where I tell the world to go find someone else to bother. I use the heavy duty workout bag a lot, and I have developed a killer left jab. I do not wish to be disturbed in my place where I can run, jump, sing, think, create, do battle with giants, or do nothing at all. Reciprocally, the world does not hear from me while I am there. In my spot, I hold all the records, including my own Super Bowl ring. When it doesn’t inspire me, or relax me, or bring about a sense of contentment, I call upon the Internet to feed me hours and hours of soft, soothing music. I have found that even my dreams are special when they are aided by soft uplifting music and a glass of Germany’s best wine. BTW, Germany has great wines, fabulous women and lousy songs. And two out of three is a good ratio in my way of calculating happiness.

My internal organs and architecture are slowly imploding, My epitaph soon could read “He came, he saw, he conquered nothing at all, but himself. And that is a life well-lived—two cuts and three back-stabs above the average.”