08 July 2010
The Precipice of Exile
Whistler, the other half of the Grumpy Old Men, and Chevy's half-brother. I guess, now, should missionaries, traveling salesmen, or any other unwanted company show up at the House of Owls and Bats, I can call out;
"Release the hounds!"
I'm sure the pre-Holocaust shotgun my father gave me, which once belonged to my grandfather, could be of some use too...
Boxes. Furniture. Badlands dust. Artifacts. Innumerable hops between the Rub 'al Khali and the greater metroplex. Heat. Rain. Fitful sleep and sore muscles. Beer and blues. Time away from home to do the right thing.
It doesn't matter whether it's me or someone else, I despise moving. My father is in his new place, though. To say he's tickled, that he's like a fox in a chicken coop would be gross understatement. For that reason, to see the smile on his face, the gleam in his eyes, I would make a thousand more hops.
There has been blood drama of a short. My brother. See, out of the three of us, my sister and I have been helping. The consensus is I've done the most, my sister being limited what with caring for a two month old. Whitie's contributed too. My father took us out for seafood to show his gratitude.
My brother cannot be bothered. He has his reasons and rationals. Apparently work and time with my sister outlaw are far more important than helping our father. Even when he took vacation time.
And I am upset. Disappointed and perhaps a little angry. I have made it plain to my father, sister, Whitie, and Sabina-who deserves sushi and a metal for looking after the dogs, r'ts, and cats whilst I kite about in the name of helping my father-that I do not want or need to speak with my brother any time before we scatter my mother's ashes, on what would have been her birthday, after my birthday. I want that time for the murder thoughts to abate, because here and now, Cain and Able don't have shit my brother and I.
Mei fei tsu. My brother's actions are his own. Not mine. Late at night, when the demons come to tea, he is the one who must own up to consequences of those actions.
So it goes...
And thus things have changed. Things continue to change. My father is out of the Rub 'al Khali of the badlands of eastern Colorado. My sister and Whitie are looking at moving to that side of the greater metroplex. Within a year, at most, my father, sister, and I will all be closer to one another. I might find myself traveling down below a little more often. None of us know what my brother might do. Presently, we all have a very hard time caring, but, blood is a funny fucking thing.
What matters most is that smile on my father's face as he watches his new place take shape. The gleam in his eyes as he blares the Beatles Rubber Sole and James Brown at levels that would have offended my mother. He might still get lonely, and he knows that. For that reason, I cannot say if his exile has ended or has only began. I will say, to help him, I would move him again, no matter how much I bitch about it. He's my dad, after all, and that's blood, and blood is a funny fucking thing.