Tuesday, April 25, 2017


My uncle said to me, 'You are full of
pain.' We were driving in his Chevrolet,
a new, company-supplied Impala, about
1966. I didn't say anything back, yet
I knew he was probably right.
I suppose it was a good intention 
that made him say that; even though 
he was usually pretty angry and harsh. 
But, if it brought to him some satisfaction,
I guessed I didn't mind, and I'd survive. 
I just didn't know why it always had
to be me who was born the martyr.
I could have turned on him, grabbed
the wheel and crashed us into a tree or
a guardrail, after smashing his foot 
down on the gas for a high-speed crash.
What could he do about it? In reality,
he was just as much my captive too.
There were ten or so years, back then, 
I didn't care to go living on; just wasn't
man enough to do it to myself. Yeah, you
get like that around the magic lights of
singular space and time  -  when you're
that different that the whole world mauls
you, twists and ruins everything up.
It's a certain form of speechlessness that
takes over - just nothing worth saying or
talking about, everything is dead or dying
or Death itself already. Who wants to live
in a swamp like that, especially being 16
or so and full of life in so many other 
ways. Destiny and fate together; they
conspire, and they really suck.
I wanted to just walk off, after calling him
a jerk. But I couldn't  -  there's always a
certain level of respect that stays in place,
even though he wasn't blood or anything to
me; just a guy who married in by marrying
one of my crazy, ridiculous aunts. Nothing
to do; the type of thing you stay with.
I've always wanted to just stop things, and
sit people down and really talk  -  not just 
talk, but level with them. Past all niceties
and manners  -  about the meanings of life 
and time and matter and being. Yes, I know
all that stuff. I come from another place, 
and those answers are built right in, all
'hardwired' as you guys now would say.

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