Death, That Old Bitch

Releasing our hidden lives
takes our giving ourselves permission to do so.

Some people can only say what it is that deeply moves them when they are drunk,
or angry, or hurt, or vomiting, or crying, or smashing their favorite toys.

On the edge of life, we stop clinging to what it is that scares us so, all the expectations,
the assumptions, the fucked up rules, the guilt trips, the humiliations, the ugly shame, and the abuses of our lives, and then, having given ourselves permission, we can stare directly into the abyss.  Finally, the fucking fucked up end of being fucking fucked up.

I went through sessions with my mother, her sitting in her bedroom, taunting an 8 foot flame licking the ceiling in a 5 foot wide pile of burning books in her bedroom, blank-faced and telling me to go back home to my apartment, and my getting a wet beach towel and putting out the flames and screaming at her for having children in the house and what if she had killed them.

Her standing on the bridge overlooking the Memorial highway in Houston and an off duty police officer plunging into knock her down, barely saving her as she leaned out and over into the oncoming traffic, and her potassium level being so low that she was incoherent from having starved herself for 2 weeks in a house where my father made $1000  day in the 70's, an unheard of amount of money in that time period.

My father was raised in a house where his mother had been a whore who worked for his father, and at 16 she got pregnant by him.  His being a bastard child shaped his world in shame for him and he was forever returning to it and after his father offered me whores when I was only 6, my own father would not let up taking me to titty bars and taunting me with pussy and would have naked women sit on my lap to try to get me to agree to go with them and at 11 I was set up with a red bikinied girl who was to take me to a room and have pictures made to show my friends so that they would  know that my father had sexually abused me having me suck his dick but made up for it be making me want to have sex with women who were like his mother.

And he beat us all and especially my mother.  He was a rage-aholic and could target what was your favorite object and smash it into smithereens right in front of you to control and scare you……me. And so I grew up with death and the desire for death and murder in the highest.

I've slashed open my wrist, a handiwork of sharpened nails to keep it personal, and have telephone cord strangulation marks around my neck from the 6 attempts I made to mark the anniversaries of my parents, and the dark September moments in my life have come like clockwork every year for 40 years to annotate the cycle of my terror at ever having  been born to watch a sister and a brother die, and now they are all gone, dispersed with the ravages of time my mother with breast cancer and my father with his own self-abuse of mental hospitals and police lock downs for violent raging and abuses of every system, like pretending to be an officer of the state and committing fraud to steal a helicopter just to go for a ride.

What the fuck?  After all the religious abuse, the phony family, the horrors of later in the dark black evenings, the sexual terrors, the lying boasting bipolar roasting fires of hideous laughter and meals of over-cooked trash that led my mother to her 450 pounds and my father to 350, the antidote seemed like death, a welcome site to taste my final licking thumbnail trust and so I washed my youth in attempts and threats and causes and streaming fascinations that let me stand in fearlessness against any odds for nothing faced me that was odder than a father holding a gun to my head and asking if this was what I wanted and if this was going to be my last day.

I taught him how to meditate, and in his final hour he rested calmly and lowered his own blood pressure below the 7% needed to survive and died right there, willingly and with forethought and on demand.  My mother wasted away and died at 299 pounds, the day she got to her girl weight of under 300, a life goal that seemed to her a morbid sentence in a hell of self-destruction to punish herself for having married such a man.

The ramble of even these short thoughts do no begin to paint the horrors of a childhood where I was left to roam at 4 and found myself as far as 10 miles away from home.  I have had the fortune to walk into a thousand social spectacles of sexual and violent excursions.  I have been in every lane of every street of every twisted puny psyche, bullied scars, and deviant rapaciousness.

There's not a fucked up thing, or scene or act of human consciousness that has not crossed my path so much that I've become a connoisseur of all things dark and twisted.  Nothing freaks me out and in fact the inner mode of my own expression has a taste for blasphemous inclusions that would make dear Satan blush.  And I hate the speed at which I have to speak in order to be heard. It's like a childish obsession that others have to hand paste each word like it is being finger painted, painted by number stamped and cradled fucking slow and dull witted shit, really.

And yet, having such a temperament is the worst of my father, and a handle on my mother's spine to feel that treacherousness.  Ah, the allusions for the belly. A chaliced demagoguery and a ladle for the pain.  And finally I said fuck it to death.  You've had all of my waking hours you can ever have, and I began to paint and draw and create to spite the bastard.  And my fucking precious writing…..it became the pathway of cause and resolution.

So, now, at break neck speed, and I have challenged some in zones and written on a word and published on the Internet in less than 6 minutes an entire work from first fist to last lip and dinged the bell just to show how easily the tearing out of a soul can shoot the moon transcendent and it is nothing to kick the milky balls of existence in less than a dime's worth full of time.

Making love to soldiers on the battle field, talking down the knife of one who stands so ever close a ledge of indecision, at the crack house at 4 AM to pick up the girl who has not the sense to be at home but now sees some danger in a room of standing sluts who sell it all for one last hit, the wagging swagger of some semiot whose hostile demeanor is a slicing wit and wants to taunt the present company with angled sneers and open threats and teasing bits to just engage the open wound that winds his heart a ticking time bomb's curse to be the repetition of his old man, and ten thousand outer metaphors who live the lives of those who have gone before my warrior's pace embracing all and finding none so far out and beyond and handing hung a banished broken heart full slung a candle in a rain storm hurt as the child that lived within me spun and made his dash that morning when he woke and found himself locked in a strange car, on an odd street, and without a reference to his name, for I live nowhere and everywhere and this is my name, one past death and a fucked up slow train paradox, runningturtle87.

And you say you want to die?  I don't mean to minimize your pain, but welcome to the fucking human race.

runningturtle87