I left you a voicemail. I’m sorry.
I’m also sorry that I write personal letters to you on a blog that horrible people occasionally lurk at.
I’m babbling. I’ve erased and rewritten so many paragraphs.
I want to comfort you and make you feel better. I love you, plain and simple, and I know how you love your Mom and how much it must hurt for her to be gone, regardless of how she finally passed.
She was a wonderful lady. Julia watched me weep tonight describing her and that’s when she told me that I should be down there next Saturday morning. So, I can’t promise yet but I’m figuring it out.
I started to tell you about my week on the phone and I’m so fucking sorry that I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry I tried to tell you about how fucking terrible my Wednesday was, when the stomach flu Little Dude brought home from Pre K hit me during the midday shift at the Clown Factory. I had skipped breakfast and while swinging through the cafeteria, had downed a bowl of beef barley soup around ten thirty in the morning. This was a tremendous mistake as I explosively vomited it at a toilet three hours and ten minutes later completely undigested, just as the fever aches and shivering chills set upon me. I was soaked with sweat and was whirling with nausea. I managed to get home and collapse into a lumpy futon in the toy/guest room (so as to not infect Julia or re-infect Tony) for more or less two days. Julia called me a big baby. Friday night after I had showered, shaved and re-conquered solid food Julia vomited dinner at our toilet.
She has this weird thing about sickness that reminds me of Lily where she thinks illness is almost like a matter of willpower or morality or something; she refused to admit that she had the stomach flu because she had barely acknowledged that I had it. She had insisted that I had eaten something that hadn’t agreed with me and thrown up my meds and that’s what had messed me up and that I was probably just being a baby about having thrown up anyway. This afternoon as she laid in the dark bedroom shivering in a pool of feversweat that I mopped from her brow she acknowledged that perhaps there had been a communicable agent involved.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this.
The TV just turned itself on. Weird.
I’m basically alone in the house. Julia is sleeping deeply and Tony is having a sleepover with his cousins. This was supposed to be a date night tonight for us but she’s sick and besides I’m days behind in work; I missed the readthrough and had to cancel the first rehearsal of the show I’m doing.
I loved your Mom, she hugged me like I was her own and made me feel at home.
I remember one of first if not the first time we had a good cup of tea together and watched a movie it was 1988 and the movie was ‘Blade Runner’. Years later we’d fall asleep to it when we were living at the Castle, but we watched it at the first place I had lived at with Shosh, the top two stories of that huge corner house. God that place was amazing. We were in the attic, digging the movie. Wulf and Gargunza and maybe Handsome Paulie were there. Or maybe it was Indianna Brad. This wasn’t the same night you had sprayed red vomit over the upstairs bathroom when you became a Viking. Netheria would have been the only girl there, naturally. But we watched ‘Blade Runner’ together on the upholstered sofa in the attic with the cool windows on the small TV in a violet haze of cooling tea in 1988, and it was a perfect moment twenty seven years ago.
I still love that movie. Rutger Hauer plays Roy Batty, the android or ‘replicant’ that Harrison Ford hunts. One of the things Batty wants to find out is how old he is (they have false implanted memories which give them the illusion of adult maturity and ‘experience’), which he does, and it turns out he’s four years old and his ‘incept date’ was January 8th, 2016, which was yesterday as I write this on Saturday night. We are living in the future of our childhoods.
Mortality and Identity are all tied up together. It is not my mortality I fear, but loss of my identity, and by that I mean that which I am attached to by love; my family, friends, collaborators, and teachers for example. While art and literature are certainly important to who I consider myself to be my attachment to them is trivial before that of my attachment to my son.
Now, in the bright light of Sunday morning as I resume this, my four year old son is playing, rampaging through our sunny nest full of joys and toys in the quiet corner lot. I am a full blown domestic suburban daydream daddy these days…
My God, David Bowie has died.
I do not even know how to begin talking about that right now. I mean, yes, I was just going on about mortality & identity but… …that is a different post.
I am so glad, however, Kenny, that you just made the joke to me and Gargunza about death trilogies and how that you thought it was weird that your ma would be in one with Lemmy and Bowie; it makes a certain amount of cosmic sense to me because that’s how cool your ma was, Kenny.
I am so sorry. I will try to be there Saturday.
My unlimited love to y’all,