Last night I was drunk but tonight I am sober or, at least, I’m not drunk but I’m drinking so no…I’m not sober at all in the typically way that most folks would consider the normal everyday in and every eve out and that’s fine by me. Just fine indeed. Because I’m not interested in sobriety and I haven’t been since I kicked the prick of Christian memory right out the proverbial gloryhole of getting old and growing cold and just, you know, settling for distance over rate and time became a fallacy better left to fathers and mothers and the dead who don’t give a shit how many yellow lines I can walk with my eyes crossed and my knees tight and my finger to the flickering light of the law because what I am now and what I was then and what I will be are all tertiary characters in the great grand dame of ME, the wondrous and illustrated avenue of sinews and fibers and electric sprees killed at the crest lest they come back down around, complete the circuit and blow the whole motherfucking thing out.
I am also smoking.
I don’t know if that’s worth noting. It shouldn’t be really as anyone who knows me knows me as a man with a pack in his pocket and cherry on his stem and if my teeth could tell the tale of silence they would proudly proclaim a French inhale.
But they wouldn’t really.
They wouldn’t say anything even if they could because the yellow and fractured nature of their remnants shouldn’t be pushed beyond the preternatural pudding lest I end up a gummy like mum.
Not that I call her mum.
I call her mother sometimes because I enjoy the disassociation between the mom I loved and love and will mourn when her time finally comes (which it has, at least, twice if not thrice but if I ever use thrice in everyday parlance I’d be better suited chewing curbs but it skipped her over every time so here we are) and the frizzled yenta who just got God again and with his light has decided it’s better to live life in a gray scale of soft lies than bother remembering who I and she and dad and Don and Carl and Prince used to be though she’s still pretty apt with the Kiki even if she blows up the events of his death like a Pollock orgy of animal balloons or am I thinking of de Koonig or what’s the fuck his shit?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
There’s no time to sew truth in this arrow.
What I mean is that there’s mom (XOX) and there’s mother (tingling hiss) and any time and every time I get my ass across the river to spend time with her I have to brace myself for the bully pulpit bullshit that occurs when she gets to vacillating between the two or, worse yet, I have to know goddamn certain to the core of the callow that there will be eight times out of ten that it’s mother straight up from the get go especially when she’s gone on with her persistence and guilt and gawdy and I just can’t, you know? I can’t. It’s a falsehood as fabricated as the Arabian night trick and I’ll be damned if I let it influence the way I see myself.
But I am because I do because I never learned to live the route less taken by only children of divorced (after damn well past a decade) parents one of whom’s death pangs stole all but ALL the ardor of his youth while another’s boorish charm and terrified affection (being, himself, the child of alcohol, violence and Angelino neglect) concocted surls and shit and a snicker at his last wedding in Vegas.
Or should I say latest?
That’s mean and we’ve come so far from not giving a flying fuck (and respectively giving too many) about the distance between us that indicating that Pop’s new life with his lady isn’t something that can settle his soul for the long haul.
I don’t call him Pop either.
It’s fun though.
It suits him and the kindly dynamic we’ve found now that I’ve shattered my knees in the trades and I can say “No” and mean it and not feel like an ingrate for wanting to maintain a certain and deserved space to be who I am and what I enjoy and right now I’m about to enjoy the fuck out of this cold one.