Hassan is Dead

What time was it when I woke Monday? After-noon-ish, focusing my entire energies on one small load of laundry, perfuming my sister's much abused and only worn in the building maternity jumper, made it to the laundry room at 7:30 and had to wait. The elderly black man was using the front load washing machine. Made it back up here by 9:50 to see the movie adaptation of the novel I avoided deliberately when it was the darling impulse purchase of its time. Not all of the movie. Had to piss and was starving, but I got the basic points. Sodomy is the Islamic secret beneath the web of lies we all play, Housseini's tale just another version of The Killing Fields, and my spiritual waste land is as stark as Pol Pot or the Taliban. This is what my autobiographical narrative has done to my soul, and there is no redemption, just an Aaron Eckhart dark comedy without the merit of his bite. A woman with cerebral palsy who let public housing for urban road kill destroy her life.

I never expected to succeed as an author, or a writer, or a poet-- not even when I was Jerry's fuck me adhesive on my grandiose metaphysical quest -- but I expected to succeed, and it never occurred to me to attribute failure to mood disorders. Perhaps it should have occurred to me. Not that I am shocked my stepmother is dying. She has been seriously ill since she and mio padre married. My ambition to be established in a career is slipping through my fingers and I am going to lose my father soon (if Jerry himself is not threatened with the same prospect after our communique in 07) and I can feel my own mortality falling apart, like the corpse of the friend in American Werewolf in London. We all have to die, but I know the mental torture of being bedridden like my fucking moron ex Frank is something I simply cannot endure; my life has been a runaway abject terror of living like that, like this, living like I am, an intelligence buried under squalor contained by nursing aides who are neither medical caretakers nor janitors. Perhaps I cannot rematriculate. Perhaps it is already too late, the pain of genocidal epochs absorbed like a sponge. I've never been happy. Obsessive, yes, desperate, yes, strong, yes. Moments of pleasure, my byline in Philadelphia Inquirer garbled ecstatically to my sister in anti-climatic fashion, whereas Jerry would have understood. It would have called for a drink. None the less, what progressives have done in succeeding to keep me de-institutionalized is more inhumane than my parents abandoning me in Home of the Merciful Savior. I should have died in the knife fight that threatened the occupational therapist who played John Denver records in the playroom, after we were fed dinner. This was also the me decade I knew.

Sarin Neurotoxins

"You never really learn something until you teach it." My latter day drama instructor.

Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.

This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.

She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.

If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.