01/12/2014 § 5 Comments
For the last six months, I’ve been writing the words, *There was never a time*– just that — on napkins and notepage headers. I tried and tried but couldnt get the words out. Yesterday morning the words came out. Ursula K.Le Guin calls this effect the bung-puller, like a cork that won’t come out from the bottle and until it finally bursts out explosively spewing wet fizzy all over the place.
There never was a time it could have been prevented.
There never was a time you could have changed your fate.
She acted mechanically. She lived as if her path were cast in iron.
Only once long ago did she make all her choices.
Before you ever arrived:
11/17/2013 § Leave a comment
Everything changed my life ten years ago, June 2003, on the occasion of my parents 50th wedding anniversary; my relationship with my Lost Child brother Reggie among them. Now is not the time to chronicle that catastrophe, but I must say something about it; everything that has come after it has been affected by this thing that happened.
To make a long story short — it’s not easy! — my family wanted me to come to the affair as a scapegoat with all my scapegoat baggage so they could blame me for what ever they wanted to blame me for — in public as likely as not. « Read the rest of this entry »
11/14/2013 § 2 Comments
I was 7 and my brother was 5. We were playing in the backyard and Mom stormed in completely pissed about something; I don’t recall what. She pulled us into the laundry room while holding a wooden mixing spoon. She bent me on her knee; my brother standing frozen beside me. Then she pulled down me britches and started whacking away.
I remember being surprised how little it hurt. My hide must’ve gotten tough; i wasn’t a little boy any more. She actually broke the paddle on my mighty behind. For one brief moment I thought it was done.
She pointed at both of us and shouted, ”Don’t you go anywhere!”, her face red. We didn’t. I was sure she was going to get the really big wooden spoon, but instead she came back with a wired coat hanger. I actually thought, this isn’t going to hurt, until I felt it cut into me. I don’t actually remember her doing the ol’ Joan Crawford, but I do remember my little brother’s face; his mouth contorted, his skin slick with tears, his eyes red and swollen, wailing in fury and pain, when he got his. I’ll take that memory to the grave. « Read the rest of this entry »