Things Fall Apart
Tough times. Tough times.
I've been so off lately, so off. I don't remember whole parts of my day and I forget where I am sometimes. I have this here job and every morning I wake up at 8 AM and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watch television while Spike sits eagerly at my feet and begs for scraps. Sometimes I give it to him. Sometimes I let him beg. I take him out to do his business and he won't go if I'm watching. I turn my head to the skies and get lost in the clouds and shades of blue that seem to stretch on forever. I look down at him and he watches me with these soulful eyes that tell me he wants me to take him off his leash so he can go see his bitch (literally) who lives next door. The pampered poodle who always sets him off with one horribly seductive bark then moves away from the fence so she can watch Spike claw frantically in an attempt to reach her. I watch her do it. Poor Spike can't even take a shit when that bitch does her bark, he can't remember his own name, he becomes possessed with the need to be with that dog. And there she sits, as smug as a poodle can look, and watches with detached amusement as Spike would spend the rest of the day fruitlessly pawing at the fence, trying to make it to her.
And I pity him.
I crouch down and I tell him "Don't you understand? She's a bitch, Spike. A bitch. She doesn't care about you, and she sure doesn't wanna knock boots. She just wants to see you squirm, she enjoys controlling you. Don't you understand you idiot, she uses you to fulfill her own dark fantasies! Her heart is cold, her eyes are black, and every time she barks she knows you will soon choke yourself on that leash in an attempt to dig your way to her, and all the while she KNOWS YOU CAN'T MAKE IT! You can't do it, Spike! This is a game for her, the way she gets her kicks! Her life is dismal and boring and her insecurities are only quelled when she has some poor fucker like you to practically hump the gate in an attempt to get to her knowing all the time that no matter how close you get to her you can never have her. SHE FUCKING KNOWS YOU CAN'T HAVE HER, YOU STUPID FUCK!!!"
By this time I'm out of breath, my face is strained, I've been yelling a the top of my voice and I'm almost on the verge of tears. He just looks at me, tilts his head quizzically, and goes back to his futile work. And I look at that poodle and I hate her.
And that happens every morning or so.
* * *
For some time now, my grandmother has been dying. When you think about it everyone is dying; I mean, we're not getting any younger right? Right? But what I mean with her is that she has come to understand her age, her limits, and she's begun to resign herself little by little. When my grandfather died a few years ago it was almost pleasant. He was of high spirits, there was never a time he was not smiling. I felt warm every time I touch his dark and wrinkled hand, which was almost always clutching a black leather-bound Bible. He used my picture, a picture I had taken when I was maybe 4 years old, as a bookmark. My grandfather never complained, never seemed worried, and died with a smile on his face.
Now.
You know people these days can go on forever about philosophy and Zen and finding your center and all kinds of stuff. You can talk about the complexities of the universe and you can knock religion as much as you'd like. I suppose that's a right we have in this country...or something. But no matter what you say you believe in (or don't believe in), when you get old, get cancer, and start withering away day by day do you think you can go so peacefully? Do you think you can have so much assurance as to what will happen to you when you die that you can be strapped to a bed, forced to shit through tubes, and never once show a frown? Do you think you can die with a smile on your face? Hmm?
But anywho.
My grandmother, unfortunately, was never as pleasant as my grandfather. And the realizations she makes day by day as she understands how much she has lost and is continuing to lose is incredibly difficult to watch. To see her walk with her cane, and she can't sit down unless someone helps her and she makes the comment "So this is what I've become. What's happened to me?". And you just want to look away. She sees that her family has been tearing themselves apart with who keeps her and for how long and she must feel like a liability and it pierces me to watch. Sometimes she looks in the mirror and its like she sees the wrinkles on her face, the liver spots on her hands, or the blueness in her eyes, for the very first time. And she watches and watches and can lose herself in bewilderment if someone doesn't get her. She gets angry at nothing, no one, and when she realizes she isn't cognizant of her surroundings anymore she becomes visibly frustrated almost to the point of tears. She knows she is dying and resents it. It must be tough.
I found out a few days ago that paranoia, alzhiemer's, and senility run in my family. Apparantly my great-grandmother went insane in her later years and was confined to those metal beds they had in the old days with the straps and such.
Insanity is part of family tradition.
Surprised?
I've been so off lately, so off. I don't remember whole parts of my day and I forget where I am sometimes. I have this here job and every morning I wake up at 8 AM and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watch television while Spike sits eagerly at my feet and begs for scraps. Sometimes I give it to him. Sometimes I let him beg. I take him out to do his business and he won't go if I'm watching. I turn my head to the skies and get lost in the clouds and shades of blue that seem to stretch on forever. I look down at him and he watches me with these soulful eyes that tell me he wants me to take him off his leash so he can go see his bitch (literally) who lives next door. The pampered poodle who always sets him off with one horribly seductive bark then moves away from the fence so she can watch Spike claw frantically in an attempt to reach her. I watch her do it. Poor Spike can't even take a shit when that bitch does her bark, he can't remember his own name, he becomes possessed with the need to be with that dog. And there she sits, as smug as a poodle can look, and watches with detached amusement as Spike would spend the rest of the day fruitlessly pawing at the fence, trying to make it to her.
And I pity him.
I crouch down and I tell him "Don't you understand? She's a bitch, Spike. A bitch. She doesn't care about you, and she sure doesn't wanna knock boots. She just wants to see you squirm, she enjoys controlling you. Don't you understand you idiot, she uses you to fulfill her own dark fantasies! Her heart is cold, her eyes are black, and every time she barks she knows you will soon choke yourself on that leash in an attempt to dig your way to her, and all the while she KNOWS YOU CAN'T MAKE IT! You can't do it, Spike! This is a game for her, the way she gets her kicks! Her life is dismal and boring and her insecurities are only quelled when she has some poor fucker like you to practically hump the gate in an attempt to get to her knowing all the time that no matter how close you get to her you can never have her. SHE FUCKING KNOWS YOU CAN'T HAVE HER, YOU STUPID FUCK!!!"
By this time I'm out of breath, my face is strained, I've been yelling a the top of my voice and I'm almost on the verge of tears. He just looks at me, tilts his head quizzically, and goes back to his futile work. And I look at that poodle and I hate her.
And that happens every morning or so.
* * *
For some time now, my grandmother has been dying. When you think about it everyone is dying; I mean, we're not getting any younger right? Right? But what I mean with her is that she has come to understand her age, her limits, and she's begun to resign herself little by little. When my grandfather died a few years ago it was almost pleasant. He was of high spirits, there was never a time he was not smiling. I felt warm every time I touch his dark and wrinkled hand, which was almost always clutching a black leather-bound Bible. He used my picture, a picture I had taken when I was maybe 4 years old, as a bookmark. My grandfather never complained, never seemed worried, and died with a smile on his face.
Now.
You know people these days can go on forever about philosophy and Zen and finding your center and all kinds of stuff. You can talk about the complexities of the universe and you can knock religion as much as you'd like. I suppose that's a right we have in this country...or something. But no matter what you say you believe in (or don't believe in), when you get old, get cancer, and start withering away day by day do you think you can go so peacefully? Do you think you can have so much assurance as to what will happen to you when you die that you can be strapped to a bed, forced to shit through tubes, and never once show a frown? Do you think you can die with a smile on your face? Hmm?
But anywho.
My grandmother, unfortunately, was never as pleasant as my grandfather. And the realizations she makes day by day as she understands how much she has lost and is continuing to lose is incredibly difficult to watch. To see her walk with her cane, and she can't sit down unless someone helps her and she makes the comment "So this is what I've become. What's happened to me?". And you just want to look away. She sees that her family has been tearing themselves apart with who keeps her and for how long and she must feel like a liability and it pierces me to watch. Sometimes she looks in the mirror and its like she sees the wrinkles on her face, the liver spots on her hands, or the blueness in her eyes, for the very first time. And she watches and watches and can lose herself in bewilderment if someone doesn't get her. She gets angry at nothing, no one, and when she realizes she isn't cognizant of her surroundings anymore she becomes visibly frustrated almost to the point of tears. She knows she is dying and resents it. It must be tough.
I found out a few days ago that paranoia, alzhiemer's, and senility run in my family. Apparantly my great-grandmother went insane in her later years and was confined to those metal beds they had in the old days with the straps and such.
Insanity is part of family tradition.
Surprised?