"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

25 June 2010

Boneyard Two-Step

Chevy, one of the Grumpy Old Men. Aside from the recent artifacts and photographs, what could be considered my inheritance from my mother...

My father and I were watching a documentary on blues guitarists. It seems as inevitable as the sun setting in the west that the story of Robert Johnson selling his soul to the Devil came up. All my father could do was chuckle ruefully and call bullshit upon mythology.

"There ain't no Devil," my father said. "I know because I tried to sell my soul to him for twenty years. When your mother was sick, there were plenty times I invited him over to make a deal; me for her."

I'm not sure who to resent more for that; my father? My mother? Or perhaps that mythological infernal pussy who's wife I fucked, as I once told a homeless man? Does it matter?

A two and half day stay in the Rub' al Khali. Beer and blues. More boxes. More things thrown away. More artifacts acquired. Another dog.

Twisted in its symmetry, I used to ask my mother if once I got a places with some land, and it was time for me to have a dog again, if I could take Chevy. This was back when I lived in the city. She would tell me no, sighting that he can climb a six foot fence without much effort. Nevermind he is a certified champion, well-trained, incredibly gentle, and trained as a therapy dog, he might want to run.

That argument started eight years ago, and, no, I don't feel good about winning it. The technical term, whelps, is monkey's paw. All the things I've brought back from the badlands recently fall into that category. The price to be paid.

And all things for a price, that is the nature of the deal...

My father moves in a week. My next week is already packed with some other obligations, so I can only guarantee being around for moving day. In a way, I'm kind of grateful for that, giving me a chance to catch my breath and not get a mouthful of badlands dust. Moves are pain in the ass anyway, but this one has been less than fun. To say I'll be happy when it's done and over would be cliche, but a friend of mine once pointed out the beauty in cliches, sighting the little nuggets of truth contained therein. So, I reckon when I say I'll be happy when it's done and over I'm speaking true words.

No comments:

Post a Comment