"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

28 February 2012

Caged

The gypsy's mother most likely has locked-in syndrome. The lights are on and someone's home, but not. It is more imprisonment. The stuff of penny-dreadfuls and nightmares. Ensnared in a breathing cage of flesh, bone, and sinew. It is rare as hen's teeth to walk away from something like this, and whether living or dying is preferable is a matter of aspect.

The gypsy tells of how her family does not look for paperwork stating what her mother's wishes were one way or the other. She speaks of her father's blinding rage, how he thinks some fairy-story deity will heal his wife. Blood drama; that, which is not as easy to walk away from because it involves blood, and blood is a funny fucking thing. I know this; not as well as some, but better than most.

Perhaps telling her what will happen will happen is a little caviler, but I did abstain from throwing in one of my favorite lyrical mantras of Roll the Bones. Besides, I have neither the gall, or outright idiocy to pretend to be psychic. That's just not my way. Be that as it may, what is sometimes called a gut feeling, but I've sometimes called the whisper in my ghost, is not positive on this matter.

There is a distinct possibility she'll be kiting to her homeland much sooner than the annual trip to visit family and renew her work visa. I offer my condolences and counsel, though I sometimes fear any conversation we have on the subject might end up being monopolized by my own emotional baggage over the loss of a parent. Still, just as there's a chance she might be returning to her homeland much sooner than usual, I suspect there's a chance I might be venturing down below to get drunk with her whilst we mourn the loss of our mothers. Although, I doubt anyone can even guess how badly I want to be wrong about that.   

12 comments:

  1. So sorry love, I'll sip a whiskey and send warm thoughts.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Whiskey sounds terrifically grand presently. I think I may have to procure a bottle...or two.

      Delete
  2. Dark and complex Normally I would say that we meet at the playground at midnight and see what the sky has to say about it, but Chantel's idea isn't bad.

    Pearl

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Playground skies along the witching hour can be an interesting place to stargaze, or tell ghost stories.

      Delete
  3. Fantastically done. You have a curiously affecting way of using language. Thanks Robbie.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Rolling the Bones. A song with near perfect lyrics, and with one of the hardest messages to accept.

    Why does it happen? Because it does. That's almost cruel in its simplicity, isn't it?

    When you feel the time is right, take the whiskey down the mountain and be with your friend...she won't care if some of the tears are for your own grief.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Kind and cruel are man-made concepts. The forces that govern the universe do not care about such thing. Whenever the chaos becomes more apparent, I listen to that song, if not the whole album, and it helps me make sense of it all.

      I fear that time with the whiskey is going to come a lot sooner than later.

      Delete
  5. It's been a while since I've been around (am behind on my reading). It's good to see you're still expertly crafting words into images.

    I hope the whisper in your ghost is wrong.

    ReplyDelete
  6. I can count on one finger the number of friends I have who would be willing to "comfort" me into a drunken stupor. I keep her on speed dial.

    ReplyDelete