Archive for July, 2009

Repression

Monday, July 6th, 2009

The problem is you can’t write well after you’re dead.
Yet, it is difficult to say what you want to say while you are alive.

You need to be someone else so you can talk frankly and expose
everything about the other people and everything that spins around them.

Supposedly, God knows everything and what difference would what you could say make to her or to anyone? Does she give a shit?

This little dirty deed, that little dirty deed, pretty soon you can’t get a loan or sign as a witness for a friend.

You are held back from expressing your true thoughts.
If you wrote them, your roommates might not see you the same way.

The time has come to put aside the notion of writing after death.
I need to write what I know so that everyone can see how little it is.

Don McCormick

The Paradox

Monday, July 6th, 2009

Luke is still dead, but from time to time his sisters channel him to me as nonchalantly as they would toss a scarf over their shoulder. They say he is there all of the time or, more correctly, we are here spinning in space and he is not. He no longer has a left brain. The lying part of him has been consumed.

Yesterday his eleven year old son, Dominic, said to me that both his mother and his father were crack-heads and his grandmother hated him and his heart hurt. I told him it was not so, that he was wrong, that he would feel better later. I let him walk away. Then, I changed my mind, I did not let him walk away. I went after him and I asked him to come back to my room. I told him that his father had been my little boy, my big boy, a man that I had loved. I told him that neither his father nor his mother had intended to do wrong and especially not to him. In their lives they did good and bad, but more good than bad. I had loved them. I missed them.

I hugged Dominic. I kissed him on his curly hair. I cried for him and for what his Dad could have learned on earth that would have made that timeless place his sisters touch better for him. His wife is wandering around still trying to find a home, still destroyed by all of the children she has lost and all of the ways her life has been pulled from under her feet since she was born. She is a poster child for everyone that comes into the world on the street side and has no address for her letters. All of her children have good looks and good brains, and for their sakes they all are in the care of others. They have homes and families even though their father is dead and their mother is wandering homeless.

Nushka, my wife, thinks all of Dora’s children will be damaged by what they have lost, a mother, regardless of how soon she left them all; even though she did not want to leave, even though they were all taken away by due process of law in the full light of day while God was crying. It is a mysterious kind of damage that Nushka sees. It is in that place where there are no words and no thoughts, the place where things are and are not. Jeni and Annie have devices to deal with this condition and friends who see things and tell them secrets. Nushka and I have Jeni and Annie. We still cry. We still just spin around the earth and the earth around the sun and the sun around the milky way and we wait for the first coming and the second coming and as many comings as there needs to be to cure what is wrong with time and people and the fabricatons of our left brains.

Don McCormick

Thoughts for Day 7-3-09

Friday, July 3rd, 2009

I am going to continue to not buy anything until I use-up all of the stuff I need. Then I’m going to throw out everything else and see what my shelter looks like. If I don’t like it I going to move to a place with a better view.