RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,033
(oh dad, poor dad, mama's hung you
in the closet and I'm feeling so bad)
I still find myself getting
mad about all sorts of things,
and it's mostly, apparently,
the kind of things others are
not much phased by. I used
to fight back, and push, but
now I guess I just let it go.
The world is too much for
me, all the chigger-bastards
are already in control, and
there's not much else I can
do. Everyone I used to know
is starting to die off. In and
of itself tht's not fun, but
it only gets worse. It's a
quite curious moment when
you come to this - let me
explain: When all the people
you currently 'know,' like on
a weekly basis, let's say, in
the everyday course of things,
are easily outnumbered by the
same sort of people, once living,
who have now died off. As a
person - one singular human
being - you don't really 'know'
when that moment hits, but
eventually, unless you're like
some big-deal superstar or
legend or famous person, it
somehow dawns on you. You
know more dead people than
you know alive people. As the
living peel away, one by one,
into the sanctums of the dead,
they're not really replaced.
Or not much anyway, and
certainly not enough to keep
that number static. I should
know. I should also be 20 again,
because I'd sure like to see this
all unfold one more time, when
I'd have a better perspective
on it.
-
My Father was a pretty nice guy.
Giving, in his way. There were
two very different sides to him,
and you needed to be careful to
watch for which side was coming
out. That took some skill, and it
took time to learn too. You had
to watch for the signs, or have
a sense of what was coming, so
you'd play to that side. Or flee.
He was very volatile, or even
'go-off-able' - and you didn't
want to be there when that
occurred. He often made weird
comments, had a real thing about
displaying 'Manliness,' claimed
the Russians (though he meant,
in the 1970's 'Soviets) were
already on the Moon, watching
our every move (?). I think,
maybe, his problem was that
he only liked himself. Manly,
brusque, blue-eyed, strong,
peasant-stock rural Italians.
He hated Poles; Jews; Homos;
guys who dressed up and wore
hats; train-commuters; men who
used briefcases. Jeepers, certainly
today he'd be all nutso-crazy
over all the indeterminate sex,
trans-gender, rainbow-nation
bullshit everywhere. He'd
probably be a mass-killer.
My aunt (his sister) used to
say she would never drive
with him, in a car, because
he drove like a cowboy. When
I was a kid I figured cowboys
drove cattle, so I never knew
what she meant, though I later
learned she meant reckless and
speedy. 'Jes' gettin' the cattle
to San Antoine', Mae; sit tight.'
-
Fun stuff. In his work career,
he got in trouble a few times
for punching people out,
fighting, and - one time -
in fact was taken to court
for supposedly going after
some fellow upholstery-shop
guy in Newark with a pair of
shears (which, I also learned,
meant scissors). Nothing ever
came from it, that I knew of,
(I was about 6), but 'we' were
supposed to be getting sued and
all that. My Mother was wailing for
days; but then it all disappeared
as an issue. I figured the poor
guy must have been a Polish,
gay, Jew; and God help him if
he was black or trans-gendered.
Those were some days!
-
Besides the thing about the
Russians being on the moon,
he always had this other
debatable opinion that we
quarreled over, often enough.
It was the equivalent of our
father/son talk, which I never
got. But I learned all that crap
later, in the seminary, from
freaking priests who wouldn't
know, on that count, what they
were talking about if their sisters
were sitting next to them, naked.
What a way to learn the essentials.
Anyway, it was about maggots
and dead bodies. How this
entire subject ever came up
enough to be serious and
germane enough for him to go
on about a lot, I never knew. But
his theory was that, when you
die and they bury you and all
that, under the ground your
body produces maggots that
consume you. The thing was,
he claimed that we each already
had the maggots or the maggot
potential, within us, and they
self-produce, as we rot, and
they consume us. No one puts
them there, they're not from
the soil, or anything like that.
They're just inherent, in us,
already, as part of some of our
genetic make-up waiting to
happen. (I hope you can follow
this). I used to tell him that
with all the embalming and
draining that's done to a dead
body, that couldn't be, and
besides that, where would
the latent maggots, all fat and
sated, go after consuming
us? They'd die in that same
sealed box we were in. Human
life is bad enough on that count,
speaking of what's-the-use, but
why the heck do it to dead-end
maggots too? I never knew what
his ideas behind all that were,
but I guess he knows now. And
to date, thankfully, and I hope,
as of this writing, I don't.
-
Dad's are funny creatures, and
I know my turn at that bat was
a miserable wreck. But there was
nothing else I could do. I didn't
even like life, so why would I like
any of its offshoots. Parenting?
Boy, what a burden that was.
Probably because the damned
Russians up there were watching
my every move. Right?
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