|[dis]closure i: in the late wind
||[Jan. 30th, 2008|11:27 am]
[dis]closure i: in the late wind|
my mother died at 655am on Monday January 14th. and, i think to myself, nothing will ever be the same again. only the wednesday prior did Sekou tell me that the doctors gave her only days to live. that we should all say our goodbyes, our last words to the soon-dead. but when i came to her room thursday night. i could think of nothing to say. nor anything to do but sit there a moment hearing her fully alseep. and kiss her head. and say goodnight mother. and returning early friday, i sat with her and tried to communicate through her pain-glazed eyes. to some little effect. mentioned what was happening, where i'd been. what i was planning to do. God, but did she hear me? and understand? and, if she did, what effect did it have on her? hope? gladness? wistful satisfaction? the mind of a mother is so very impossible to tell. read. understand. and by this time she had no words. and possibly only moaned when the pain was too great for her to stand. O my mother. your passing has left me quite unappreciative of the world you left behind.
there is not much left to say. i have brooded. i have wept. i have shuddered and paused. i have, it seems, lost my will to be poetic. words? lyrics? meanings? lost on me in this place. i write from a need to expel this disease from my mind. it lays so heavily on my soul that i can feel it wrapped around my chest. clinching, clenching, squeezing. shortening my already short breath.
quite simply. i am devastated. and though many offer their services. what i have to serve must be the darkest, foulest thing in the world. there is nothing more evil on heaven or earth. all this time i dabbled in the darkest darkness. now i am the darkest darkness. i can be festive, but not from a foundation of happiness. i am perplexed by it. i am always thinking: mom is not here. and so? there is little push to do much of anything.
if my father is the heart of the family, my mother was it's soul. and she taught me to sing and dance. and to spread my concern over the lives of others. call it caring. she taught me to cook and clean. her love of jazz and classical informed my youthful sensibilities. her love of american musicals informed my sense of drama and class. her dry humor is much of my own sense of humor. she could tell a hilarious joke and not laugh; tell a terrible joke and laugh for days. and it was on her heirloom piano, i learned to HEAR music. years and years. a full decade perhaps. before i start learning anything formally. there i could pick out Do - A Dear. and chopsticks. there i would write maybe a dozen or so songs throughout the course of junior high and high school.
the sun shines for no reason on me. i cannot shake the shadow of her pain and suffering. and that, for all my skill, there was nothing I could do to better her. yes. well. there is death and there is death, my friends. there is skill and there is skill. and i have been exposed a charlatan by the cosmos. my little magic is hedge-wizardry. it is meaningless spectacle. there are much greater workers than i. working. working their heaven-sent skills towards the enlightenment of the species. but me, i fell hell-bent under all this weight. i am driven, but the direction is new. destructive, painful, flesh-grinding course. perhaps to my mind, this is the only way to renewal. in the footsteps of jesus. to die and return. i must obliterate this old Me because he is fully damaged. the long haul is too far for him. he is happy to sit in here and suffer in stagnation. and he may. it feels better than still trying to conquer and all but conquered world.
i have addressed God directly. as i have not in some time. not since my mystical teenage days. one experiences, first, a selfish "why hast thou forsaken me?" moment. then a more rational: why must this be? finally, one realizes this cup will not be passed over. that this draught is for them. and you must accept or deny the truth. death is truth. and the heart of soul. and the object of any life.
we'll be dead sometime.
my mother's life was too short. too short be far. she worked everyday. either at school or in the lives of her children and husband. she brought us through our father's stroke in 97 (which came in the spring of my graduation from junior high to high school). and since then, was the family driver, breadwinner, protector, and fixit-man.
my mother solved the problems. but, typically, her's was the problem that most needed solving. and no one. no doctors, no surgeons, internists... none could help. finally: there was hospice. and there was pain relief. and the heart-breaking agony of looking into her eyes when he vocal cords were to crushed to allow her speech and trying to understand her moans and gurgles. those once brilliant eyes. turned to far-away, stone-dull things. i hope she could see me. but suspected not.
sleep, mother. oh sleep.
one of her last words gives comfort to others (though it seems only to worsen my understanding of her condition). my father sat beside her when we had to admit her to the hospital. when we'd finally gotten her morphine for the incredible pain. and a bed to lie on. and the ability to sleep. she told my father: "Emilio. Smile and go home."
and so. here we are in the future. at last. is it everything you'd hoped it'd be? lonely, directionless. amorphous. i look back on this poor journal and i lose track of the number of lonely, soul-shocked nights. the number of quiet nighttime sufferings. drunken down-time fits. and bitter stupors of frustration. but, i recall that one could write, one could sleep, and one could rise to the shitfest one more time with confidence. now, though, is the begun the longest night of my life. from which there is no writing or sleeping escape.
my mother sleeps. and i, never again, will. i keep the night watch, dear reader. and i don't even have the strength to continue this poorly written, asscrap entry. i am disgusted.
i am alone. i am on fire.