Friday, January 20, 2012

the theme of my life, should be the gossamer threads of the garden.
I should only be so lucky, to follow just these and the life of the forests around me, each and every day.

Just give me.. 10 minutes of mercy. 10 seconds would be fine. 
The truck misses my dad. 
He has a story to tell, and he tells us. 
It would just take 10 minutes, or seconds,  of mercy. 

We did not get them. He did not get any mercy, none whatsoever, this gentle man. 
Only what I had the staff show him, in pain relief.  Our ministrations, my brother and I, just broke his heart. The hours I spent with my own body holding him down, in sad and gentle combat, as he tried to break his broken body free, and I told him there was no way out but up.. 

We had four days of some kind of mix of mercy and torment. 

I would have given all that
for 10 minutes of mercy. 10 minutes of conversation. 

At the same time, we got to let him go ourselves. 

If you have to go, and we all do, let the ones you love hold you. 
let them play you music and love you. 

there isn't a good way. 
But there also isn't a better way. 

If it's time to go. 

I cannot change time. 
I cannot change fate. 

I can step into the shoes that fit me, and keep walking.

I may quake, I may shiver, I may be terrified and my heart may be broken beyond repair. 

I will come back from it, I will persevere through the tears.
Dad won't tolerate our deep depths of depression, he'll play a joke or sport a license plate. 
Literally, he has made fun beyond the grave for us. 
who else would cause "smelly" to be on a Volkswagen in front of us, telling fart jokes in our uncle's Suburban in traffic.  Who else would cause the random to play "rock steady" A Real Love Survives as I am crashing into tears. 

And then play Driven to Tears. 

Which my random player just did. 

Sometimes you have to listen to fate, and its messages. 

Thursday, January 12, 2012

it's with earthquake shivers, I look at my fate this eve.

"My mistakes, brought me to this place, where the flowers
replace the thorns. "
(Sarah Hickman)

My brother and I have been through this odyssey with our father, and we aren't done yet, and he has, in his Pyhrric nature, given us both a way to our dreams.

In all of the additions and subtractions of fate, both of us, would just rather have our Dad, back close at hand. But he is gone, struck by a broad, gross hand, which would ask more than his simple death.

The flowers do not entirely replace the thorns.
Our Dad would have us work to our utmost, to find a way to improve ourselves.

Our Dad was a blue collar man, and I, for my own work, follow his path on a slightly more sophisticated way. I keep people working, despite their pain.

Our Dad was the son of new money aristocrats, and took the path of a laborer when he married our mother, and needed to keep a kind of family income with the US Post Office.

The awards he got, in the beginning, were abundant.
They got tired of him trying to shift the dominant paradigm.

If you don't have people in position, you can't do a thing.
This year, especially.

When I got to East Texas, a long desperate drive after a tolerable flight.. 

I knew I was walking into hell, at the Tyler Emergency Center. 
This is another story, but I walked into hell, fully armed by our father, and ready for battle. 

I can't imagine what kind of knuckle-dragging hell they took our dad into, in Palestine Regional, where they refused to give up his personal effects until I had made contact with the regional director, and made sure they knew that I had done that. 

The money in my dead father's wallet, was bait enough, to make staff lie. 
It wasn't a lot of money, not over three digits. 
They were sure that a few lies and fibs, would pay off for them. 

It took conversations, and texts with their Director, for me to walk in and get my father's effects. 
As would any sentient, emotional person, I fell apart completely upon laying my hands on the belt, wallet, glasses and familiar scent and things of my paternal.. the staff had the grace to do the same. 

I had the presence of mind to call into consciousness for them, my father's presence, hold my hand up to their startled eyes, and say, yes, he is here, and you must feel him. 

Of course I do, because the engrams of our loved ones are engraved upon our hearts. 
Because we, the living, do not know. 

But we, the living, must hold those in sacred trust to the dying, to their trust. 

What would you steal from the dying man, or his children?
What kind of worthless protoplasm are you, to try to do this?

If you will, will you at least submit to target practice?

Because you are exactly the kind of worthless mutherfucker I would like to cut into slabs. 

Come over here, and stand still for a minute.. 

Friday, January 06, 2012

They don't let you post. Forget it. 
You can't post anything, it disappears.

Blogger totally ate an important post of mine.
Couldn't post it.
Nothing moved.
Useless system.

Blogger does not save stuff you really care about.

Fuck Blogger.