Misti

The last time I saw or spoke to my uncle was the summer of the year my grandmother died. I was less than happy with him, but civil. Perhaps it was respect to a blood relative. Maybe it was because I knew going A Clockwork Orange on his ass, though fun, would be far from satisfying, and it wouldn't bring my grandmother back.

When my grandmother was in the sickhouse, after the experimental, surgery, which she had a stroke right after, my uncle, wanting to watch his credit rating, had her transported back to the city. She had her second stroke in transit. When my grandmother was dying, my uncle told my mother he would not bankrupt his family to care for her.

"Why not?" My mother asked him. "I've bankrupted mine."

After my grandmother's affairs were taking care of, none of us saw or spoke to my uncle. My mother pretty well made it known if she never saw her elder brother, it would be too soon. In the nearly six years since my grandmother died, I have gone from wanting to hunt my uncle down to a cold form of acceptance. But, like my southern relatives, it wouldn't hurt my feelings if I never saw him again.

My mother never made any mention of my uncle not being informed in the event of her death. My father broke the news. My Uncle didn't know she was sick. He will be out within the week for the first memorial. The second, where we scatter her ashes in the outback, is for a later date.

When my father mentioned my uncle would be in attendance at my mother's memorial, my brother was in earshot. That's when he laid down the law;

"Whatever animosity you have toward that man, you will forget it. You fuck with him, you fuck with me. He is your blood relative, and you will treat him with respect and love."

"Don't even trip," I said. "You got no worries from me."

"I figured as much from you," my father said with a bit of chuckle. "But I want to make sure your brother heard me too."

It is said my memory can make an elephant cry, so forgetting why I feel the way I do about my uncle is a little difficult. But I can be civil. Besides, this is his sister, and it would be pettiness to deny him the mourning of her.

As far as I'm concerned, my uncle is the type of money-driven, materialistic cunt I most despise. It was his concern with money, his eyes only seeing the yankee dollar sign, his materialism, his selfishness, which contributed to my grandmother's death. By virtue of that, he murdered his own mother, and he has to live with it. Late at night, when the demons come, he has to own up that. And that is my retribution.

There is nothing more I need to do or say...

I had not slept for thirty-six hours. When I finally did collapse, I slept for twelve straight hours. Interesting dreams. Something occurred to me; whilst I still may occasionally have the wonky sleep patterns, the insomnia days of going days without are behind me. Be well-rested feels quite wonderful.

My sister and I spoke. I told her how our father accidentally rattled me by virtue of the phone he called me from to check in, the night before. Apparently, my uncle has been informed of recent events. He took it badly. There is a part of me that's doesn't care. I've harbored some less than Buddhist thoughts toward him since my grandmother died, nearly six years ago.

But that's another story...

I remember my brother going on, borderline cliche, about beautiful days. A similar thought to mine, cliche as well, of finding it wonderful to be alive. I have a friend who is very fond of cliches for because of the very simple truth they carry within.

It's one of those amazingly clear days. Warm, for this time of year. No wind. The view from my front porch could be used as a postcard.

I took my companion to work at the winery. Later, I'll pick her up for her radio show. I got myself a mocha and took the back way home from the western edge of the Road Less Traveled. One of best friends phoned and we talked for a good long time. I brought in extra firewood and split kindling.

It really is a beautiful day, but all days are if you only stop and take notice. And it really is wonderful to be alive, cliche though it may sound. So many loose sight of that, and it takes tragedy to bring these facts into sharp focus. I've never had that problem. Still, I find this day, the first day after, to be perhaps one of the best days of my life.

Top of the rock formation, north of home, Winter Solstice. I placed the prayer flags next to the cairn my daughter made in late summer for my mother...

The phone rang roughly an hour after the witching hour. Just like that. She was gone. A few weeks had morphed into a few hours. Time is an abstract.

I went to the sickhouse to meet up with my brother, sister outlaw, and my father. My brother and I went into the room. What I saw there was a mockery mannequin, not my mother. It was a shell. Meat.

My brother and I went to the badlands with my father. There, in the small hours, we drank beer and listened to jazz. Around the first hint of dawn, my father, wanting to be alone, sent us to tell our sister.

Of course, she cried. But some of those tears were relief in the fact it's all over and done with. Now comes dealing with repercussions. In some ways, gravy, by comparison.

It was much later in the mourning than I hoped, but I did eventually make it home. My companion made me rooibos tea and ham.

There is part of me that wishes my daughter could have seen her grandmother one last time. But I also find it is better for my little girl to have the memory image from our last holiday gathering than the withered husk, which was devoured by malignancy. I suppose it doesn't matter. My mother is dead and nothing is going to change that. Still, somewhere inside me a little boy wants his mommy back.

A cheesy lesson I could impart onto anyone; be good to your mother. That's the only one you get. And it feels peculiar as fuck when she's gone.

"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity"... -William Butler Yeats

My brother phoned. It was to be a short conversation, but that was not how the die was cast. There was word from the sickhouse. My mother's kidneys are shutting down. The number is up. Sometime in the next few weeks, we'll be putting her in the ground.

Fucking perfect...

We had gone on a walkabout with a renaissance man of our acquaintance. The snow was deep enough to get us all to regret having not brought snowshoes. There were gusts, which kicked up snow devils that danced over the treetops and clear spaces between the pines.

Yet I found the trek cathartic. The cold and the rush of wind across the peaks and through the trees was invigorating. I found myself feeling a profound sense of peace. The type I find when wandering about in the bush.

We had Himalayan food. My vindalhoo was spiced perfectly, and the Indian beer made for a good accompaniment. Hot, fresh, naan bread and wonderful conversation.

We hung out, drank mulled wine, and listened to old, old music, on an old, old jukebox. There was vinyl from my childhood. Chuckles and takes-me-back moments held within the backbeat.

I really enjoyed myself. My companion and my daughter were there and both remarked they had a good time. It was nice to visit with our friend. At more than one point during the day, I caught myself thinking it how simply wonderful it was to be alive.

I am the worse kind of bastard...

Perhaps, there's symmetry in that; I was musing it was good to be alive, and my mother soon won't be. Maybe there's irony. I have hard time caring to find it. It could be I'm still in shock. The bit of denying the reality of the situation, whilst still acknowledging its cold glare.

I am a bastard because I have found myself feeling relieved. Relieved that I know now. No more limbo. No more rollercoaster of hurry up and wait. Here are the facts; get used to it. Relieved that soon enough, the pain and sickness that has been devouring my mother will come to an end.

Mutherfucker me all you want, it can't be half as worse as some of the things I've said to myself since word came down...

A few weeks. A set of days. Not even a full month.

She'll not get to see my daughter graduate from high school. She'll not get to meet my sister and Whitie's son. She'll never know whether or not my brother and sister outlaw have any offspring. She does not get to grow old with my father.

Such a searing injustice gets me more than a little vexed. I find myself peeved with doctors, because all they could do was fucking practice . I find myself cross at the gods and the concept of chaos. Part of my is psychotically angry with my mother.

...You fucking lied to me! You were the one who would tell me lying hurt. You told me this was not your last rodeo. What the fuck is this? Dad always told me women lie. That was not supposed to include you...

And what does the anger get? Or the reptile zen? Drinking or abstaining? Tears or dry eyes?

Not a fucking thing. The die has been cast. The number's up. A particular deck of cards I was given years ago has found its way into my pockets. Any time I carry it, someone I know is dead within a month, color me superstitious.

Mei fei tsu...

My mother will be dead within the next few weeks. There is the fact of the matter. Nothing, not magic, science, or denial can alter that fact. And all I can do is own up to the facts and do the best I can with what I've got.

"Why does it happen?
Because it happens-
Roll the bones..." -Rush

Funny...well, maybe not, but I can recall about a year ago when someone I knew made the vehement comment to the effect of that year dying in a fire. I don't know that I can blame the cat, having lost a parent to a similar manifestation of disease that's killing my mother. I suppose the twisted humor I see, and perhaps, it could be argued, something, which keeps me from screaming, is how some might wonder if I might be making such a comment this year, what with the Gregorian new year coming up and all.

But, time is an abstract and the construct of a new year comes and goes. Yom Kippur happens somewhere around my birthday, and Samhain a little more than a month after that. Muharram was a little over two weeks ago, whilst Losar, the time I mark as when the orbit is complete, is still a couple of months off.

And life goes on, whether or not one is a part of it, despite the monkey-made practice of marking a new year. The Gregorian new year is the rising and setting of a sun and a witching hour away. Whether or not my mother survives that is irrelevant in such context.

What I will be happy for, however, is the holiday season to be over and done with. Christmas and the Gregorian new year just seem to fuck things up for a few weeks in the auspice of getting anything done. Sure, I've had better holidays. I've also had some craptastic ones too.

The first I remember, was when my grandfather died. I was eight and it was two days before Christmas day. It was a rather somber holiday about my house. Perhaps the next was when I was twenty-four, and my fucking psycho x and I were splitting up. I had never been so happy for the third of Gregorian calendar month of January. The most recent was three years ago now, when my father's mother was dying of her malignancy, and, well, I was having a few female problems. Okay, to be honest, there were a few times during that period when the only female I didn't want to murder-slowly-was my daughter.

Still, the reason I'd like the holidays to be over has so very little to do with my mother and that whole situation. That's just a somber and sobering reality that could have just as easily happened at some other time. In fact, it's more a social construct, which manifests with a vengeance this time of year; the auspice of excess.

Excess of greed, because the acquisition of stuff will oh so surely validate one's existence. Excess of food, because the diet can start once the Gregorian calendar sheds its skin. Excess of one form of religion, because going into a cathedral or attending some other form of a glory-shout will absolve one of all sin and get one into that heaven for free. Excess in drink, because eat, drink, celebrate, and be merry, lest the next day we die.

It makes me tired and otherwise difficult to get along with. So it goes. Perhaps you might say I'm cynical, but after you tell me I'm wrong, convince me you're right.

I'll be sure to wish you luck...

I have mentioned recently it's been some time since I've been intoxicated. Yes, I have a glass of wine with my supper. Perhaps another after the fact. That's about as far as it goes. I've gotten a little loopy once or twice, but that's the absolute limit. When it comes to getting drunk, I've lost that loving feeling, and it's gone, gone, gone.

Whoa, whoa, whoa...

Funny, what with what's happening with my mother, the very heartbreaking reality of it, and I find even joking of being a little self-destructive to be far less than funny. Occasionally, a passing interest in tobacco, but it's just that, passing . Drinking to excess, smoking, punching something, or even just not eating or sleeping because of nerves does not register to me, other than to note how counterproductive it would be. Something within my wiring does not allow me to see any of that as a good idea.

I find I can only be. My choice of reptile zen, the facts at hand, and dealing with the role of the bones chaos as it comes. For me, I find it to be the sane course of action.

The next time the sun rises is New Year's Eve. I'm making black-eyed peas with ham-hocks and catfish for my companion, daughter, and I. There could be a tumbler of whiskey involved, or perhaps a brief pop-by at the cantina. On the actual first day of the next Gregorian year, we'll go to the badlands to hang out with my father, siblings, and their spouses. There will be football I won't watch and I'm sure the situation with my mother will come up in conversation.

And then, just like that, the holiday season will be over. The time of socially constructed excess will have passed and fade into memory of it never happened, when oh, but it did, all forgiven and forgotten until the next year, and, even then, not really begrudged. So it goes. Still, once it has passed, I will be happy it's gone.

The scents are one of the things that get to me most. Antiseptic, dirt, barely washed sponge-bathed bodies, blood, excrement, disease, birth, death. Some smells are not quite as perceptible, it is on a different level that mind tells me I received the information through my nose. Fear, confusion, madness, desperation, hope, happiness, mourning, sadness, loss, gain, curiosity, apathy.

Welcome to the sickhouse...

Upon walking through the sterile halls, I remembered one of the excuses I would make to chain smoke; my sense of smell. I would rationalize the constant burning of one fag after another helped make the myriad of scents I caught a little more bearable. Much like a drunk or drug addict would say their route insulates them from whatever they rationalize the drink or drug being wanted/needed for. A junkie's reaction.

There was an image I had of my mother in my mind's eye. My brother said she probably looked that way a week ago. Thanking the gods and bodhisavattas, she did not look as bad as I feared, though she looked worse than I hoped, all pale, swollen, and weak. I stayed for only an hour. She was happy to see me and told me so. In that time, I we spoke, and I saw one of the bags hanging from her abdomen get changed.

"You don't have to be here for this," my mother told me. "It's pretty disgusting."

"Do you remember where I grew up, Mother? You were there with me when your granddaughter was born. About the only I cannot stand is to see someone throw up." I said. "Otherwise, I can handle almost anything."

Then, I kited out to the badlands to get Milarepa from my father. Much to my dismay, I discovered she had gone into heat. My father and I shared a beer and talking about my recent roadtrip. Then his phone rang. It was the doctor.

That's when the day got pear-shaped...

It would seem, my mother has not been eating. During the various treatments of her malignancy, her appetite has been poor, but this is different. It has almost come to pass that she's starving herself. That she's giving up.

And my father raged and vented once he got off the phone. He said how my mother was acting just like his before she died, but his mother was almost eighty years old and had beaten malignancies twice before the one that put her in the ground. How dare my mother quit on him now. He was through being nice. No more molly-coddling. He was going to have a look bitch! with her.

"Either get to living or get to dying!" He roared. Then he looked at me, a slight smile formed on his face. "This has been building for a couple of days. Thanks for being around."

And then he poured us tumblers of bourbon and we toasted to kicking ass and taking names. He told me the same thing he told my brother and sister, it was time to get after her. That he was going to speak with her main doctor, and by sunset of the next day we would know whether we were going to keep fighting or if the number was up.

Well, that was the day before...

And, around sunset, I was speaking to my father. It does not look good. My mother has become malnourished. Whilst, according to both my father and doctors, in her mind, she has not given up, her body, ravaged and chewed upon by the malignancy is all but broken beneath the blade. If the doctors, getting as aggressive as they can, are unable to get some more nutrients into her, she will not survive to my parents' anniversary, which is a little over three months away.

Fucking perfect...

I was commuting down to the city for a joe job once, and I can't say I was thrilled about that. I can drive down below to visit my mother, and I like sickhouses even less than corporate orifices. Whilst I might not be down there every day, I'll be down there as often as I can, and, as I have told my father and my siblings, if it came down to it, I could be within the monoliths of downtown pretty fucking quick if I had to be. It would not be legal, far from it, probably, but I've never cared much for rule of law.

My mother is dying. Much sooner than I ever wanted. Even in that angsty teenage I-hate-you-I-hope-you-die time oh so long ago. My Tibetan Buddhist cards, sad to say, have been pulled from the altar. Although, I have yet to start carrying them. Maybe that means something.

The next few days will deliver that verdict. All but the date and time of the execution. Perhaps that's what I'm waiting for. The omen, which whispers to my ghost that the number is truly up and the time has come to say goodbye.

Funny, once upon a time, when my companion put the corporate world behind her, I mentioned part of this tune;

"We'll get through the darkest part
of these days..."

Here and now, having listened to the song recently, I find the resonance of the song has changed. So much of it gets me to think of my mother. I could point out specific lyrics, but I think they might be obvious, but if not, I find I do not have the time to make that my problem. Deal.

"Yashimbawula! (the watchman's fire is burning)
What happened to the diamonds in your eyes?
What happened to the hunger for the day's chase?
What happened to the electric smile
That danced across your face?
We used to talk about changing the world
Now all you want to do is change your name
Come on baby don't surrender now
to the empty heart of these days.
We used to talk so deep into the night
You had the heart of a wild horse running
You bared your soul to me
and we both knew these days were coming
These days -- are blood in the heavens
These days -- are fire and ice
These days -- are burning streets and visions
These days -- are of the loveless child
Yashimbawula!
You were the reason I came here
You will always be the one I am looking for
I can't stand to see the way
these days are pushing you against the wall
Got to get up, got to move out
Face the tide beyond the door
Outside there's a whole world changing
We can't stand here, trapped inside
Let's step out and test the weather
Hang on baby, it's going to be a rough ride through
These days -- I'm searching for a vision
These days -- are gun metal blue
These days -- I'll be changing my religion
These days -- so heartless and cruel
say the words and fill my sails
I will love you through the coming gale
we'll get through the darkest heart of these days
It's killing time
Who will watch
the watchers?
Who will keep the keepers?
Who will love the lovers -- could you?..." -Johnny Clegg and Savuka

There is to be word from my father. A decision upon which direction things will take on this matter. A coin flip between a the way to life or the way to death. Another round of hiding and waiting.

Fucking perfect...

The landscapes of the Tribal Lands, and more canyonious aspects of the Theocracy, are far more intriguing and pleasing to the eye than when Yuki-Onna decides to send a storm, which cakes the roadways with snow and ice and renders visibility to a few hundred yards, if that. Such a storm is what we drove through, under, and around to reach our destination. And on our way to Mars, Arizona, there was no one to help us. No Superman. No Wonder Woman. Not even Charles Bronson. It was just us, defying the Goddess of Winter.

And the things I called her and said I did to her mother...

Where we ended up was a set of mountains, which I had a hard time believing were mountains to begin with. It was not tiered and terraced, like where we came from. No townships hanging from mountainsides. The thick ponderosa pines actually reminded me of parts of the badlands, attached to the Black Forest. In the distance, I could sometimes make out some hills or buttes.

My companion's father was less than pleased it was the coldest it had been at their summer retreat in many years. I at one point joked I could have stayed home to deal with winter temperatures in single digits on the fahrenheit scale. He still bought me spices for Christmas and made me lobster, shrimp, and crab pie despite that.

Although we smacked a few artifact boutiques and went out for dinner for my companion's birthday, we really didn't leave the cabin very much. My companion's father, whilst just as gregarious, if not moreso, than his youngest daughter, shares my dislike of crowds. At one point, we needed to pick up extras for the next few nights and needed to go to market. It was Christmas Eve, and, by the time we escaped the souk with our cargo, it was harder to tell who was more stabby.

We still had a good time. For the first time in a few years, I was exposed to a bit more of what is considered entertainment on a telly. Outside of a show speculating on the world after monkeys go extinct and local news, I cannot say I was overly impressed. We talked a lot. Politics, stories, I was even given shit about being an over-protective father to my daughter. My companion told me her father likes having conversations with me. I consider that a good thing.

The drive back was far more agreeable, and not nearly as hard on my twisted skeleton. My father told me during a phone conversation that Yuki-Onna had taken her show into the badlands to bury settlements further east than my parents' house. That was fine. It enabled us to drink in the landscapes of the true deserts.

I had mentioned to my companion's parents how deserts and mountains were the landscapes that fascinated me the most, but the mountains won out as far as the location of my Kashmir. My companion's mother was the one to point out that I am still what could be considered young. That I may yet find myself wanting to live in the desert.

Of course, I am nowhere near being bored with the mountains as of yet. My companion and I joked of perhaps one day having a secondary residence in some far-off canyon or mesa. A place surrounded by sand and rock and lizards and coyotes and twisted, desiccated mesquite. We filed the notion under the auspice of maybe someday .

Out on the open road, as hurtled back to our Kashmir from Mars, Arizona, I found myself realizing in the past two and a half years I have traveled far more, and extensively than I had from when I was eighteen. It was kind of amazing to come to grips with that. I've had the pleasure of seeing and experiencing places I had only read about before. I thank my companion for it, on many levels. If I'm going to go and have an adventure, potentially playing Hansel and Gretel on some nameless back road, I cannot think of anyone else I would rather be traveling with.

Mi amore,

Whilst the rest of the world might mourn the passing of Christmas or be celebrating Boxing Day or Kwanzaa, you're noting the fact you made it 'round the sun again. Congratulations. As a try to find something more tangible for you to mark the occasion, I thought I'd leave you with a few things in the meantime;

You told your radio audience this could be considered something of the story of your life;



And, well, if have to have a song;



Don't say I never gave you nothing...

Happy birthday, mi amore . Ego amore vos...

There is something about listening to Aaron Copeland whilst tooling through the American Maghreb that I find quite contextually correct. We discovered, quite to our annoyance, that the ruling powers of the Theocracy do not understand the virtue of snowplows, even on major routes. This circumstance turned a ten hour drive to thirteen. We arrived at our destination with me stiff-sore, covered in the dust of the open road, and exhausted.

The mountains here are low and rolling. No great peaks like back at home. The wind and snow, whilst bad for this part of the world, was not the worst we've experienced. Matters of perspective. There's maybe four inches, at most, and some slush on the roadways.

Spices as a Christmas gift. I found something, which called out my daughter's name and a new patch for my jacket. My companion and I are making a Moroccan feast as a courtesy and thanks for to our hosts. Upon speaking to my father, I know my mother is resting up and recovering from the surgery still, and her doctor's not yet given up hope, despite the malignancy moving to around her belly.

I'm sure I'll have more tales to tell, but I should work more on dinner. Besides, the auspice is spending the holiday with family. I should try to be social.

However, before I go, I really must leave a present. A little bit of holiday terror, of the Lovecraftian variety, should I not get another opportunity in the next few days;



Think of it as the gift that keeps on giving, from me to you...