And Now For Something Completely Different; Going Home

So. What a month, and I’ve missed communicating with you and spewing my nonsense. Packing, planning, selling—wait, no leasing—wait again, selling. OK, selling what was previously leased. Buyers of a leased home forcing me to face the separate realities of a life lived wishing to be separated, yet drawn back by familial necessities. La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe will soon be renamed to suit the enjoyments of its new owners, and the dogs and I? Well, we’ll soon be back to my boyhood home, deep, deep, deep in the tainted heart of Texas.
Travelling to Texas to visit—revisit—seeing family, friends, ex-wives. Explaining—why, when, really, you’re leaving Santa Fe?—what the fuck is wrong with you? Struggling—words, concepts, desires, emotions. Smelling—dense garden smells of rich earth created by me, sharp odors from the compost made from rotting waste, the sweet, sweet aroma of fully-ripened Cherokee Purple tomatoes fat, and so plump they bend thick stems to break.
Staring—a gay pig and his ostrich lover—Laurel and Hardy in feathers and boar bristles slow dancing to Johnny Cash’s last CD, my Gram climbing into her bright red Ferrari with the mega-watt smile of a sexual predator, the stacked-rock marker that marks the spot of Dixie’s final repose. Staring—into Mother’s hazel eyes, deeply, seeing there but tiny flashes of the searing disappointment that once flared like the ass-end of a Titan rocket fully loaded for a moonshot. Sensing Mother’s judgements more than hearing them. Listening, carefully, for a thread of cogent thought not the repetitive patter of dementia.
Staring, sensing, thinking, planning, struggling, grasping. Staring—blankly into the giant Texas sky, wondering what has happened to my life, will happen. Wondering—the sharp blade of a second-guess slicing thin wafers of imagery to fix upon glass slides to reflect, refract, recombinations of decisions made, not made. Adjusting—focus, light, angles, hypothesis, conclusions.
Listening—hoping—searching for a sign of acceptance, the eager prospector panning words for a thoughtful nugget—but finding no golden speak, not even the fool’s gold of false praise. Wishful—not hopeful, as hope remains a four-letter word, its nastiness reinforced by the short, bitter proclamations of an old woman’s ire. Smells—old people confined, disinfectant, bile—the pungent stench of parental disappointment assaulting to even not delicate senses.
Thirsting—dry mouth, grainy eyes, parched soul probing for just a sliver of approval. Cursing—her, me, the fucking Baptists. Mostly me, myself and next the fucking Baptists. Might I have done more to please, had I not been raped would it matter? Should I have? Could I have?
Differentiating—reality/fantasy, want/need, love/hate, family/other. Reflecting.
The Squirt says Mother looks as healthy as ever, but tells me if my maternal unit asks one more time, “Where do you live now,” she’s bringing her final days pill stash for a dosing of Mother’s afternoon hot chocolate. “I’ll put a handful of those downers in her cup.”
OK, let’s reset. First I leased the Santa Fe house, then sold it. After the sale contract was fully accepted, we took a trip back home to see what would be required to resettle there. What I found is that four years can be a very long goddamn time. My psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson suggested to me that maybe I should let my mother go without any care from her adult children.
“Give her a few months without any familial support, Mooner. Make her ask for your help. You three stay in Santa Fe and live a good life,” was the suggested advice.
“I’d have to hogtie Sister and kidnap her to New Mexico, Sammie. You know she can’t allow Mother to suffer no matter how our mother feels about her.”
My sister is killing herself for a woman who despises everything about her own daughter. Tells her caretakers what an abomination Sister is when Sister sits in quiet repose at Mother’s side. When Mother “Sun downers”—the actions of a demented person to freak and try to escape whatever it is the feel captured in, happens each day as the sun goes down—it’s always Sister she calls, screaming and crying, to save her. Every fucking day, and sometimes many times a day.
Now, I’m substituting myself for Sister in Mother’s care, and I don’t know what to do. I’m a morose sonofabitch and troubled to find even a flicker of light in my tunnel. I do not have anything of what it takes to nurture a batty old woman who blames me for ruining her life.
“I could have been a dancer on Broadway if it weren’t for you, Mooner! You ruined my life!”
Fuck Walmart.

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5 Responses to “And Now For Something Completely Different; Going Home”

  1. You’ve been there four whole years?


    Everybody needs somebody to blame for not achieving what the 13-year old version of themself thought they’d achieve. It seems that way, anyway. If they don’t have a person, they’ll blame the fact that they’re black or Jewish or short or bald.

    I’ll wait for a while to give you the bad news about Texas.

  2. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Nazzy. Bad news about Texas? Before I forget, I cannot for the life of me make a comment over to your place. Dickus, Prickus or Stickus, no methodology allows me to make a comment.

    Might be my lack of keyboard proclivities. Been tempted to make comments on your stuff here, like how hummingbirds are tough little shitbirds, mean as well.

    Anyhoos, Fuck Walmart!

  3. I have mixed feelings about Disqus. Unfortunately, if I switch back to regular blogger comments now, i lose all of the great comments so far.

    Also thought about adding the facebook comment system.

    I’m not sure why i have to make everything so complicated!

  4. hey Mooner,you been putting those downers in your hot chocolate again?… cheer the fuck up and fuck Walmart too!

  5. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Bella. Thanks for the good advice. Hard to pack when feeling sorry for oneself. And Fuck Walmart, indeed.

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