So weird to think in stretches instead of chunks or slices. My twenties bookend a clean, comprehensible chunk. Sixteen, that year I learned to drive. “What did you do yesterday,” she asked as my brain cleaved off a slice of time from the prime rib of my brain, serving to her a digestible face of being. It helps to understand this queer sojourn that truly boggles when considered as a whole, or at least in a longer stretch than days and decades. Ignoring the fact that a sun exploded and scattered its golden entrails across the cosmos, which journeyed for billions of years before getting wrapped up in this ball we call our home planet – where it continued to swirl and dance before whipping up men from dirt like great tornados with the powers of wizards. Nope, forget all of that. I was an egg. Proteins and DNA and other things best described by people with microscopes and patience gelled like a tiny, tiny poached egg in my mother’s uterus. There it sat awaiting its 28 days of life before a bloody flood would disperse it into the cavernous maze of our public toilet system. But not this one. This one got Pinnochio’s dream. This egg got to become a boy. My father swilled a bunch of cheap beer, convinced my mother he needed a boy, inserted his penis into her vagina, thrust-grunted, sweat-screamed, bite-clawed, and sighed his way to an explosion of biology. I began to grow. Well, not me, just yet, but the template which would one day house the consciousness I call me began to grow. That little ball of flesh jelly just kept getting fatter and fatter. It soon morphed from shapeless, primordial muck into fingers and toes and latched itself into the host body’s system through umbilical wonders where I began my love for drinking milk through straws. That same little wad of muck stretched through time and space like a mad millipede. It got in trouble in Kindergarten for talking during the teacher’s piano show. It broke its foot in the first grade. It exploded into a morose sadness with the first dump of pubescent hormones. It nearly lost its mind on LSD. It wound its way back and forth across the continental United States, then boarded a silver beast that transported it across more time and space as it curled it’s way through China and Korea and then back to Canada and the states. It drove more. It broke someone’s heart. It caused its own explosion of biology, but that thing didn’t stretch as far and had it’s last hurrah in a dumpster alongside the other balls of muck. It got sad, but traveled more, read more, saw more, ran through midnight fields under stars and squished grains of Pacific sand in between its toes, it littered the land with years of shit and piss as it continued to grow longer and older and fatter, it shed hair, fucked vaginas and anuses and mouths and spilled more mess from its long, taffy-like self. I am not a slice. I am not a chunk. I am that 36 year LONG streak of madness, ooze, shit, trash, and lie. I am a locomotive of flesh. I am more than I can see. I am an alien centipede writhing, fucking, and waiting. But who can live with all of that? So I’m just a 36 year old guy, writing a thought, but with a million fingers.
Sunday, December 02, 2012
Have you told your family yet?
No. We still don’t really like each other. Dying isn’t going to fix it. Any reconciliation at this point would be fiction.
Come on, your mom loves you.
Not really. She loves her son, but not the person who actually is her son. It’s more duty than anything. Some sort of blind biological allegiance.
I’m not a television. He says he’s proud of me, but he’s not so sure for what. He just knows I don’t live in his basement or continually fuck up like his daughters; that’s good enough for his pride.
God, you’re such an ass.
Look, I know it might sound harsh, but I’m not saying it out of spite. They’re good people. They worked hard and kept me financially sound for the most part. But there’s no intimacy. Never has been. We don’t get each other. Four walls hold a roof up, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy one another's company. They’re just bound by the hand of some architect they’ll never know.
I think you’ve drank too much.
Possibly. Something about wine and cancer – makes me contemplative.
You’ve always been a contemplative little shit. That pompous head of yours always buried halfway up your ass.
I’m not pompous you silly bitch. I just loathe small talk. Ideas are pretty. I like pretty things. When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut, but knew I didn’t have the physical constitution for it. Books became my salvation. They let me travel to the stars and see those pretty things. I just never stopped wanting that.
I thought you read books hiding under the table to get away from all that fighting you told me about.
Why do think I wanted to be an astronaut? Nobody could hit me with a belt or tell me I was an accident in space.
So, you do hate your parents?
No, I hate the parts of the world that turned them into that. It’s dirty business on this rock. They’re just people, broken, like the rest of us.
We’re not broken, Tommy. We’re just messy. People aren’t pretty little things. That’s why you need to pull that big, beautiful head of yours out of your ass before it's too late. Of course you like pretty things, we live in an ugly, base world. Things rot.
That’s certainly true; the second part anyway. I mean, look at me.
Look at you what?
I’m officially rotting. I know everyone is in that morose, adolescent we’re dying since birth kind of talk, but I’m on the accelerated plan now. I can feel my lymph nodes curdling like week-old cottage cheese. My neck is pretty much stuffed with pus, bile, and shit.
Hey, you said it was messy. I’m just embracing my muck.
When’s the chemo start?
Thursday after next.
The day after the Leonids?
Yes, ma’am. You still coming with me to watch the sky burn?
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.