"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

17 June 2010

The Phantasm Waltz

A set of Canadian song lyrics have played within the walls of my skull over the last week, a mantra of what I've been doing;

"Where would you rather be?
Anywhere but here,
When will the time be right?
Anytime but now..."

We put things into boxes and bags. Eat, drink beer, listen to loud music, and talk, sharing memories of a closing chapter. Along with artifacts, I am getting at least one of the grumpy old men. Maybe both of them, depending on Whitie, which is fine. I'm willing to make it work.

Once, during the course of conversation I saw something that always terrifies me in how powerless it leaves me feeling; my father moved to tears. As good as my memory is, I cannot recall exactly what brought it on. Then again, that's grief. Like chaos, the melancholy strikes down out clear blue sky without the rhyme or reason hominids try to assign to everything to make sense of the universe around them.

"There's no way I can stay out here," he said to me.

"We'd have to drag you out in I-love-me! jacket," I said.

"No," my father said and pointed to the chair he plays guitar in. "I'd just sit there and drink."

A warning of one of my deepest fears being laid right out before me...

Intermingled with the scent of badlands dust and memory is that of the phantasm of my mother. Sometimes, I swear I catch a residual smell of the disease that devoured her. I cannot even describe that reek, but I know it. There has been more than once, as I've engaged in these ghost dances, I've cursed both my sense memory and smell.

Another Canadian rock mantra;

"Are you still holding on?
Can't you just let go?..."

Well, where do we go from here?

These have been good days to let go. However, recently, I observed the only thing I cannot truly let go of is my ability to remember things, and the vividness of some of those recollections. Right down to the song and emotion, the scent and taste in the air. Once, it was said unto me that my memory can make an elephant cry. One of my best friends once stated if I didn't have instant recollection of an event, I had it documented in a notebook somewhere. I can admit to once or twice telling someone if I do not remember something, chances are, it didn't happen.

Like emotion and naked facts at hand, how I choose to reconcile and deal with the memories is important. Late at night, when the demons come for tea, I would rather be able to own up and accept, than let such things crawl about within the walls of my skull, slowly devouring me. I've had a few relatives now that were eaten alive by something, and I have no desire to join them, and not being a joiner by nature has little to do with that.

As I meditate upon these memories and this most recent death, I realize that great many of the deaths in my experience have taught me lessons. From my great grandmother, that, sometimes, it's okay to be relieved when someone walks on. My father's father taught me to mindful of the drink. From my grandmother, I learned we are only immortal for a limited time. My father's mother taught me if one holds a grudge, you've given that cat all the power in all the world over you, becoming their bitch. From Jibril, to fucking live, no matter what your circumstance, because when that number's up, you're ashes on the wind, that's the deal. My mother taught me this queer form of acceptance, being reminded of the role of the bones chaos, and that I do not require other influences to deal with it all.

There is still another hop or two out to help with the packing. Then, the move itself. I find myself conflicted every time I go out there. Part of me wants to just burn that place to ground. It's nice to see my father, but the context of it is something I cannot say I enjoy. There is a void and cold spot out there that is like an undertow for everything. I catch a scent intermingled with the dust, which gets me to growl. Every so often, I think I see her out of my peripheries, and it's not one of the photographs we put into boxes.

It would be cliche to say there are million things I wish I could have said or still say. And, I realize, even if I had the lifespan of star, it would never all be said. All the stories would never be told and all memories would never be shared. That's the way of things, and I am learning to accept that.

So it goes...

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