Saturday, June 30, 2012

Chapter 22

I first read "The Winter of our Discontent" over 30 years ago. In my mind the protagonist completed the act he undertook.
This is the final Chapter of a book where a man had it all.
Lost it all.
And gained it all back.

The tide was on the rise. I waded into the warm bay water and clambered into the place. A slow ground swell moved into and out of the entrance, and flowed through my trousers. The bill fold swelled against my hips and grew thinner under my weight as it water soaked. The summer sea was crowded with little jelly fish the size of goose berries, dangling their little tendrils and their nettle cells. As they washed against my legs and belly, I felt them sting like bitter fires, and the slow wave breathed in and out of the place. The rain was only a thin mist now, and it accumulated all the stars and town lamps and spread them evenly.... a dark pewter colored sheen. I could see the third rock, but from the place it did not line up with the point over the the sunken keel of the Belle-adair. A stronger wave lifted my legs and made them feel separate from me, and an eager wind sprang from no where and drove the mist like sheep. Then I could see a star--late rising, too late rising over the edge. Some kind of craft came chugging in, a craft with sail, by the slow, solemn sound of her engine. I saw her mast light over the toothy tumble of the break water, but her red and green were below my range of sight.
My skin blazed under the lances of the jelly fish. I heard an anchor plunge and the mast lights went out. 
Marullo's light still burned, and old captains light and aunt Debora's light. 
It isn't true that there is a community of light, a bonfire of the world. Everyone carries his own, his lonely own. 
A rustling school of tiny feeding fish flicked along the shore. 
My light is out. There is nothing blacker than a wick. 
Inward I said I want to go home--no not home, to the other side of home where the lights are given. 
It's so much darker when a light go's out than it would have been if it had never shone. The world is full of dark derelicts. 
The better way----the Marrulli of that old Rome would have known it. 
There comes a time for decent honorable retirement, not dramatic, not punishment of self or family--just good bye, a warm bath and a razor blade. 
The ground swell on the rising tide whished into the place and raised my hips and swung them to the side and carried my wet folded raincoat out 
with it. 
I rolled on one hip and reached in my side pocket for my razor blades and felt the lump. Then in wonder I remembered the caressing, stroking hands of the light bearer. For a moment it resisted coming out of my wet pocket. Then in my hand it gathered every bit of light there was and seemed red---dark red. 
A surge of wave pushed me against the very back of the place. And the tempo of the sea speed-ed up. I had to fight the water to get out, and I had to get out. I rolled and scrambled and splashed chest deep in the surf and the brisking waves pushed me against the old sea wall. 
I had to get out and return the talisman to a new owner. 
Else another light might go out.

Daily Strength (Part Twat)

The people from Daily Strength  will remain on my list of the one usual suspect when it comes to people that  blow in like a cool breeze offering a quick word and a narcissistic wave of the hand to fix interpersonal relationship dynamics that are way too deep for personality disordered people like them to grasp.
And honey, trust me. I may not know you personally.
But I know your type.
Heal myself? That's just what I needed. Why didn't I think of that solution about mmmmmm
Thirty-nine years ago. 
You mean to tell me that all I needed to do to wipe my hard drive clean of the sound of gunshots and the anguished screams of my mothers victims was just to get over it?
It was all so simple.
And right in front of my eyes.
And it was there all along.
Just look at the bright side of life.

No automatic alt text available.

You know how to tell you have been slimed by an interloper from the Daily Strength? They drop in anonymously from places like Hallandale Florida using a Mac and Chrome 19.0 to browse. Their screen resolution is 1280 x 800. They always have java-script enabled and their ISP address is **.***.**.32.
Of course this is all just a guess.
I could be wrong.
They hang around for about 19 minutes and eleven seconds, which is the average waiting time for tennis lessons at bottom tier country clubs.
Speaking of bottom.  
If your closeted gay husband was getting banged by his lover on the beach, and they both got hit by lightening, who would make to meet our lord and savior Jesus Christ first?
Your husband!
His shit's already packed!

My apologies to gay folks. If you knew me you would know my affinity for gay people and how you brighten up a dreary world. But sometimes you gotta hit Christians in the bread basket to get their attention. 

No god I would ever believe in would condemn me for eternity for questioning his existence, not to mention me mocking him after giving me the mother he gave me.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Daily Strength Part Deux

To the members of Daily Strength, I AM claiming my mother is a genocidal dictator.
Good folk of christian nations are unable to conceive of a specimen like her.
Not a "mother" that flies in the face of their Christian teachings.
"Mother" will never be the female equivalent of sperm donor. They will never drop the projection of their own morals onto others. Especially not when it comes to the mothering instinct.
In their world, when a mother is shown that whoring and killing is not the order of the day, a light bulb appears over the head of the lunatic, and it's time to break for lunch.
Unless your story has been made into an Oprah afternoon special,  people like me do not exist.
Not in real life.
I  am Bigfoot to them.
There are no neighbor's or friend's that are living in a house like the one I speak of.
People like me are Eskimo's living above the arctic circle, or have vans full of social workers headed their way.
This is America.
I will sleep well tonight because I just know that for those poor kids........Help is on the way.
It's all about "them", and "those people."
Who ever gets left behind should bootstrap it to the same socio-economic level as they enjoy.
And people like me should thank god for presenting me with the unique challenge that other kids didn't get.
Like overcoming the challenge of having a fucking totally insane person for a mother, a person that should have been sent to prison and never been seen or heard from again, would be one of those challenges that god's puts before us to prompt us to rise to the occasion.
That's easy to say bitch.
Munching little bits of toasty wost and jammy squirts, all waiting to viddy the next c-span ultra violence wrapped in your blanketed snoggy wog and comfort of your home.
It's the human detritus hour and Oprah never disappoints!

My mother did what she wanted to do because she wanted to do it.
I have lived with it since the day I was born.
And I will live it long after she is gone.

Daily Strength

There are milestones around every corner. Unseen and unnoticed until one jumps out and bites you in the ass. I can't definitively say that this comment was posted by a member of the Daily Strength site, but it sure smacks of it. This person singled in on a one dimensional post about my mothers insufferable demeanor after her stroke, and came this close   .      to chastising me about my unforgiving  behavior and attitude towards her.
This is not my mother:

 hErE sHe IS:

It's this one right here.

I don't mind someone going off half cocked. But to imply that I would cut ties with a June Cleaver of a mother months after her ischemic attack, and only because of her post stroke affect,.... is a bit insulting.
Like I would walk away from a doting mother that has spent decades raising and pampering me.
This bitch wouldn't have been allowed to raise cobra's.
Whether you are from the Daily Strength or not, don't read a couple of posts and decide I am the snot nose bastard's that the parents of the people who frequent these sites like to think we are.
I heard the self infected gunshot that killed my father.
My sis heard the shot that killed her murder victim.
All a result of her unbridled sociopath tendencies.
She engaged in such disgusting behavior (both sexual and ...just disgusting) that I blush writing about it.
Both because it is disgusting, and because I worry people will think I am lying.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

More of what I hate.

Have you ever been in a relationship with a member of the opposite sex that ended up like the Hindenburg's final approach?
And how you would do anything to make it right? Anything except to seek this person out with hat in hand and make amends. Because they were the ultimate architect in the undoing of it all, and doing that would only embolden them and their destructive ways and reinforce their perceptions of you as weak and someone to be trampled on and taken advantage of and as being disposable?
Well that's the way I feel about my mother.
If she never makes a move, then a move will never be made. Because she has reduced the relationship between a mother and child into a transaction and all the concomitant bargaining that follows. I said what I wanted to say to her, and in answer for all her years of her unspeakable abuse, I got a blank wall in return.
So like a run of the mill relationship, he who speaks next...... loses.
And I am OK with that. As much as I post and belly ache, she has made me a person that is ready, willing, and able to accept the most adverse consequences in life and move on to the next place to camp.
I wasn't born with the wherewithal to forge through hardship. Life with her indoctrinated me for it.
So she will die as she lived.
Surrounded by sycophants.
And standing on the necks of those that might have loved her as only family can.
Fuck her.
That's what infuriates me about her. She has taken the most sacred and given of all relationships and done what she has done with all the other relationships in my life that she could wiggle into and ruin.
I hope she burns in hell.

There is no winning with a sociopath.

The thing I HATE! worse than anything else is that little sliver of thought in my head that feels sorry for my mother. No matter what she thinks she is, and no matter what she is capable of doing, she is still a little old lonely lady living by herself. I watch the National Geographic channel and saw a lioness that got bit by a cobra and almost died. I was feeling so bad for this girl and cheered for her when she came around and fought off hyena's and eventually rejoined the pride. Her cub had died. She was emaciated. But she finally was sturdy enough to finish her life on her own.
 If I was face to face with the cat, she would make quick work of me, and floss her teeth with my dwindling hair supply.
 I won't ever be able to occupy the same room with the Barbarian ever again. All those letters I tell you I sent.
I sent.
No bull shit.
The Barbarian doesn't take kindly to being told off. Especially in such a no nonsense manner. I even pasted a picture of two dogs humping with a caption that said......someone get a broom and a bucket of ice water.....Barbara's in heat again.
I sent it to her.
She all but threatened me with an untimely death while we were on "good" terms and with me living down there but having an argument with her.
I had walked out the front door to work on my truck in the drive way to get around having to face her while she watched television in the den.  She stuck her head out from the den and said something about did I know that someone was trying to break in the front door? She knew it was me taking the long way around to avoid her. I took this as a throw down threat from her letting me know she might actually manufacture a scene and cap my ass. She does have a gun by her bed.
And even if we came to some reconciliation I know THAT would be manufactured to cover her 24/7 seething rage.
Rage is the only "emotion" she feels. Every thing else is a front.
So why bother?

My son was having a flash back from the pot. 
So I was forced to fire a warning shot between his eye bones.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

The Barbarian and her Blame shifting

Something my sister wrote in comment of one of my posts has had me doing a lot of thinking. About how my mother shifts the blame for her criminal exploits onto my sister because the guy she ran amok followed my sister home.  This is it right here.

After thinking about it, I really think that Bill introduced himself to me because he'd heard in the neighborhood what a wild mother we had. I don't think it was by accident that a 21 year old says "hi" to a 15 year old who looks like a child. I had only talked to him twice and he wanted to go to my house and meet my mother. Duh! As soon as she saw him, they were Bonnie and Clyde.

Bill was the guy that pulled the trigger and killed the guy outside the house. They met up in Kansas City and the deal went down in Dallas, but what she said really got me thinking. 
My mother was a magnet for other crazy people and even in a new town it didn't take long for the word to get out that there was a new psycho bitch in town.
To me or you some crazy person would best be avoided. But as birds of a feather flock together, so do nut bags.
I really just posted this so I can use this art work from a series called homicidal maniac. It's just like her and her blame shifting ways to not even cop to soiling her own knickers.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

But Daddy!

I sent this to the guy that was boning my mother more regularly than all the other swinging dicks were boning her back when she got knocked up with me. 
He's in his 80's now.
 For all I know he is so demented he doesn't  know what day it is. 
That's OK
Someone in his family can read it to him if he is that incapacitated.
 I have no ideal if my mother ever told my father about boning their canasta partner.
 It's my life and childhood.  
Considering the so avoidable night mare my mother turned it all into.
 I can embellish if I want.
Fuck her. 
Fuck'em all.
If no one was looking she would have heaved me in a dumpster on the way back from the hospital. 
A fate I would have preferred over what I got. 
I am glad I get pissed off instead of depressed. 
I come home and run one of our cats down the garbage disposal and I feel much better.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Dirty Love

I am so far past giving a shit about what people think. 
If there is a way that I can wring even one more drop of mockery enjoyment from my life with that bat shit loon of a douche slut mother, sign me up.
My mother never gave a nano-seconds thought about me before she said or did something that unleashed an avalanche of dire and irrevocable consequences cascading down on my unsuspecting ass. 
The effects of her mindless bullshit, bullshit that was just an afternoon's toss off fun for her, had such far reaching effects on my life that I am still paying for her reckless disregard of me.
She gave to me. So I give to her.

The Barbarian had been having an affair with a neighbor of hers. It started long before my step father died.
And being only fuck buddies with the guy, she got to know and become friends with one of his booty calls.
This booty call was married and ran around with any number of other men.
Mostly married.
The woman's husband was driven half crazy trying to catch this skank fucking around.
He was never successful.
But he always had his doubts.
And he had his doubts about this neighbor of my mothers.
Since my mothers goal was to make me a pariah to the people in my life, I responded in kind.
I sent this husband a letter so he might know that his suspicions were not  unfounded.
The only thing worse than her friend banging this guy behind her husbands back, would be if it was another of one of my mother's lies. But if my mother go's around lying about her friend's they should know.
Mary is her faithless friend.
Billy is Mary's long suffering husband.
Eric who died a couple of years ago is the guy "writing" this letter that culminates in bursting out into a karaoke version of a Zappa song.
I was really really really pissed at my mother.
She took everything I hold dear and casually wiped her ass with it.
Turn about is fair play.
I am linking you to the Zappa song. If you do not listen to the song while reading the words, you are not allowed to continue.  I have ways of finding you out.

  My Dearest Mary.

      Do not let Billy read this over your shoulder.  This is your faithful lover and confidant Eric. Last night some drunk in a pick up truck clipped a telephone pole and knocked the lines down across my grave. I am able to dial in and tell you the things I never did when we were younger and so in love.  Things I have been dying to tell you since  ..well since I died. Mary my love for you is deathless. It binds me to you with mighty cables like the ether net across my grave.  The memories of the blissful moments I spent with you creep over me and my gratitude is to god and to you that I enjoyed them for so long.
    But Mary, if the dead could come to life and flit amongst the living. I shall always be near you. In your gladdest days and in your darkest nights.  I am the cool breeze as it fans your throbbing temples.
   Mary do not mourn me dead; think that I am but gone and  I wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
Mary this song is in my heart is for you.

Give me..........................Your dirty love
Like you might surrender to the dragon in your dreams
Give me............................Your dirty love
Like a pink donation to the dragon in your dreams
I don’t need your sweet devotion
I don’t need your cheap devotion
Just whip me up some dragon lotion
For your dirty love ...yeah
Like that tacky little pamphlet in Billie’s bottom drawer
Give me.........................your dirty love
I don’t believe you’ve never seen that book before
I don’t need no consolation
I don’t need no reservation
Sneak out while Billie’s shaving
give me..................your dirty love
like your mamma made the that nasty poodle doo
Give me..................your dirty love
the way your mama made that nasty poodle chew
I’ll ignore your cheap aroma
And your little bo-beep  diploma
I’ll knock you in a coma with my  dirty love

* In retrospect I wished I would have burned a CD and included it. But that might have killed him and there is no statue of limitations on murder.

**  No contact is what you make it.  Throw yourself into it. It can redefine your soul!

Friday, June 15, 2012

I am a mark, I am an island.

In the winding down of the seven months I cared for my mother, she started calling me a mark.
As in the kind of guy a grifter seeks out as easy pickings.
This was her way of assigning some bouffant, Tammy Wynette, cracker ass parking lot cred to herself, while dismissing the genuine hard knocks I took full on when she abandoned me after my fathers death.
The two reasons I was relegated to the mark zone:
#1) I was on a greyhound bus and gave a guy that just got out of prison enough money to buy himself lunch on his trip between prison and a halfway house in Austin.
#2 )  I gave a guy that lived down the street from her a ride to the bus station. The son of one of her neighbors. He was bouncing around on the couch's of friend's and family and to her that equaled being homeless. .
The only strike against these guys were that they are black.
And she is as racist as the Grand Wizard.
This is a perfect example of a malignant narcissist having a fit about things that are of no consequence and using their objections about a non event as a toe hold to fuck up the rest of the day.
This was really the first letter I sent to her. After I went no contact.
I might have mixed up her address with those of her neighbors and sent them copies of this too.
It's all a blur to me now.
My mind is shot.
Ask her. She'll tell you.
She will tell you that my memory is tainted by all the times I huffed the Mary Jane.
So really I am hardly legally responsible for this post or any other post or letter no matter who they were unintentionally written by and no matter who they were accidentally sent to and who might have accidentally sent them even if in actuality they were in reality actually sent or written as opposed to me having the illusion of sending them whilst I was in a hallucinatory state.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Crazy is as crazy does.

 A couple of months after I left my mothers house I
started wondering what she was like for the 35 years I had almost no contact with her. After my father died she dumped me at my grandmothers and never looked back. She found a new boyfriend  in less than a month, and was remarried by spring.

She had better things to do than to waste her time on some hippie kid who drank whiskey and played guitar with old n*****'s in south Dallas. Who did I think I was? I wasn't even old enough to be in a bar, much less hang out at one.

For the first 15 years of my life, she was every where, all the time. And not in a good way.  Like living next to a radio tower and picking up the station on everything from the toaster to the fillings in your teeth.
Then she was gone.
I thought I had a read on what kind of a lunatic she is.
But who knows what she was like when none of us were around..

She never played it straight up in her life.
 She would leave to "run up to the store for a newspaper," and come  dragging back hours later.
She would park me in her car and drive off with some guy. And be gone all day long. Me stuck in some parking lot or heaved out at a grocery store. She didn't MAKE me stay there waiting for her.   I knew that when she came back I couldn't cost her 5 seconds of getting down the road or there would be hell to pay.

I wish I could have plugged into their sickness as an adult.
Poor kid. I feel sorry for all his fruitless attempts at keeping the peace between two people who lived for drama.
I never questioned my parents authority. If it were not so, they would not tell me.
I knew how things were at my friend's house. But my friend's parents weren't gaming them.
Today, I would rule over those amateurs. I know them for the rubes they were.
I would be the one who drove my father to suicide, not her.
I would make goddamn sure he knew what a faithless slut she was. Each and every day. I would remind him of all her swinging dick boyfriends.
I would shame him into doing the right thing. Or kill him trying.
I can hear my big smart mouth now.
Me making sure he knew about the lame ass crackers giving her all their lame ass cracker game.
Ah think yew gotta purdy mouth'air sweet meat. Wanna suck my dick?
Big ole titties like em'air ones means big bucks in a wet t-shurt contest.
Sugar Booger, Mindifi polish the hood of my Mustang wif da cheeks a yo ass?
Fucker did what he did any way. I could have at least called him a douche bag on the way out.
I guess I would rather not know everything.
Normal people can't get there from here.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

I can't tell you why.

I don't know why I obsess so much on me going no contact with my mother. I think going no contact was the catalyst of confirmation for what I had grown pretty sure of what her reality is.  It's a lot like the guy that suspects his wife of cheating, but hopes it is all in his head, and comes home early and finds her knocking boots with the tinker, the tailor, and the candlestick maker. 
It was the straw that broke the camel's back and the slap to the face that let me know that decades of me turning the other cheek carried as much weight for her as what she took and others gave to her for decades.

Which is to say it meant nothing.
And for her to devalue and discard as easily as she did.
Just makes me want to burn her house with her in it.
My sister is as good as no contact and she can correct me if I am wrong, but there was never an open declaration of fuck you and a kiss my ass from her like there was from me. So I played it to the next level and we both got to see just what she is made of.
For me there was no choice. For her to shit on me for 50 plus years and then want to engage in some twisted hand to gas-lighted hand combat while I was doing my best to make her quality of life as good as possible is unforgivable.
I'm not fine again but every day gets a little better.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Funeral Pyres

By request I am posting the first of many letters I sent to the Barbarian as I transitioned to no contact. There was no getting a word in edgewise on the phone so I was forced to make my points via snail mail.  My mother's ignorance of making a computer work is only surpassed by her fear of being cremated. She has her whole funeral prepaid and mapped out down to the color of flowers on her casket spray.  So I let her have some of what she's been giving the rest of us for years.

Restland  Crematorium Services.

Dear Mrs. **********,
  We are delighted to confirm that your on line request to modify previous burial arrangements to a simple cremation service are now complete.  We will place the difference in cost, in escrow, to cover a yearly memorial wreath for your father's grave on veterans and memorial day.  We are happy to make this adjustment and want to assure you that our crematorium services come highly recommended.
    If you are unfamiliar with the cremation process, allow us to briefly describe this procedure. After your service is attended by no one,  your repulsive carcass will be removed from the cheap temporary casket, and placed on a fire proof tray. Your body, and the flour sack dress you will be wearing, are then subjected to intense heat from natural gas jets pointed at your withering cadaver. You will be subjected to this flame until your body is reduced to a heap of smoldering ash.  All metals from  titanium hip replacements, down to the fillings in your teeth, are removed and salvaged for scrap. The proceeds will be used to finance our weekly keg party.  
   You will be pleased to know that Charlie, that old guy that lives in the oleander bushes behind the dumpster, no longer sneaks in at night and abuses corpses.
   If you have any questions, ask your son, the loser, more about it.  Take a break from writing him in and out of your will.  Quit telling the world about how he smoked pot as a teenager.  Quit cursing the ground under your feet. Stop telling his ex wife he can screw women at your house if he wants.