North Korea. They have their own big bombs now. In a statement, from the news, Americans have been called Imperialists and apparently we have Zionist friends. How I do hate it when everyone is lumped all in together. Sitting here in my dirty underwear in the heat from the current drought, without any extra money, shitloads of extra work problems, and the doctors wanting me to take even more drugs for my MS....I'm not positive that I feel very much like an Imperialist. When I look over my day to day...no, I'm not sure that anyone would lump me in with the Imperialist crowd. I did do the first load of dishes today...I put them in the dishwasher. Yes, I do have a dishwasher. It's not a human, it's machine. Does owning that make me an Imperialist? Maybe it does. However, I'm not a dictator. I don't take stuff for free from people who can't give it. Maybe leaders should look inside before pointing the finger. I'm not sure an world dictator would have that much fun in my life. Since I have not had the experience of hanging out with my dictator's or world leaders, I can't really say for sure. But, it would be so much cooler if people would actually use names, specific names, instead of releasing broad, general statements.
And my thoughts on bombs. Shit, we only have one planet. Even if we could evacuate, I'm not positive that we would actually make it anywhere else in space. At least, not very quickly. I don't want to fight. I don't need anything terribly big, just to make sure that everyone is extra dead. But, we have spent tons of money on that point. Yes, we spend tons of money on stuff we don't need. Classy.
I am surprised every day with regards to what people say....outloud. There's too much, and I can't even keep up with it all. I've been wrapped up in it. It is distracting. Then I don't have to look inward. What would I find if I look in there? Am I being the best that I can be? Probably not. So, I took this weekend to be quiet...still...think about all the things that I've been avoiding while watching world politics, listening to gossip at work and watching reality T.V.
I've been in limbo for a bit. I've been wanting to get rid of all my external shit. Maybe have a big garage sale. But, I've been dawdling. I've left stuff in piles around the house, avoiding it with my eyes - with my efforts. I finally realized that I just didn't want to look at it. I didn't want memories to flood my senses. I didn't want to remember things that I missed, things that were gone, things that were changed. I also didn't want to carry it around with me anymore either. I have felt like I just wanted to open the house and tell me to come in and just make me a fucking offer for whatever they wanted. That's not really a great idea, strangers in the house, not a good idea. I should be more organized about it. Box it up, tag it, move it to the front....then call in the people. That's it, too....add in more people....just another thing that I didn't want.
It was a few months ago that my aunt died of cancer. My father told me and my brother not to come. My aunt didn't want a ceremony. She didn't want to be recognized. My brother and I weren't allowed to go. We couldn't grieve. We were always standing on the outside. I wasn't shocked, this is the way it's always been. Just fucked up. At some point, she had gone from the funny, beautiful, bright red haired single woman in a fast 1965 Mustang taking me as a little girl, up and down the highways fast, so fast, with the music loud to dying in secret of cancer shrouded in bitterness. We did not got. It's easier to avoid your feelings if you're just not there.
I don't know my lineage. I've heard rumors, but there's not a family bible, or records, or anything. And given the way I was raised, I have always stated that my true escape, my true shot at happiness would be when everyone that I might have to answer to, or carry feelings about is dead. Free space to breath. History just bogs us all down. It continues to repeat itself, and no one ever takes the lessons. So, maybe if I just didn't really know any of the history, well, I'd have a decent shot. Maybe. It has been my secret hope. But, sometimes I find myself jealous of others with close ties and history, even though it's almost always turned my individual opinions. Which to choose, which to choose? Both a double edged sword. Always doulbe edged when there's people, yes, always that.
My father sold my grandmother's house, threw all of her stuff out, and moved her with whatever she wanted to keep with him.
I did have a reaction to this. I cried for days. I couldn't stop. It was the weirdest feeling. I couldn't even define what I was feeling. I just cried. I cried when I was awake. I cried when I was sleeping. There wasn't particular feelings or memories that came up...just this physical reaction of my body.
I decided to go back to the house. I told my father that I just couldn't speak to him anymore. I was done. It wasn't mean. It was just a finality. My brother hasn't called me since then.
I called the church that my grandmother attended. They were rude and hadn't bought it. No wonder she had stopped going there after so many lifetimes. I called the only other church in town. They were very nice, and they had bought it. This was the church that my grandmother spoke ill of....that point was funny. Who ever has the money can buy the goods, it's the way of the world. No one would be at the house, but yes, I could come and see it, the voice said. It was Easter weekend. I left on Good Friday.
The house is in a tiny town in north Texas, just outside of Lubbock. The land is flat with dark red dirt, and winds. I drove towards the house. My car was quiet. So many people had asked me if I was going alone. Yes. They were all surprised by my yes. Why would I take anyone? This was just my visit. How would get it, besides me? My car was quiet.
The trip is a long eight hours. The moon was so full that night. You could almost turn your headlights off and continue to drive. As it came up over the horizon it was a beautiful, giant, orange orb. You do not get to see that living in the city. I passed acres and acres of trees and bushes. There were cows and goats, dead armadillos and deer. There were two dead deer, a fawn and her baby, dead, under the big moon. I wondered if whoever hit them could have just picked them up and used them for food. That would have been more appropriate than to let them die in vane, bloating and rotting on the highway cutting through their home. I drove on.
The smell of smoke and burned land became overwhelming for a few miles. The State had been having giant wild fires. The news didn't really cover the picture well. In the dark I could not see the devastation, but I could smell it, my lungs could feel it, my car lights could see the smoke I was driving through.
I finally couldn't drive any more. I just stopped at a hotel that looked acceptable, that had a brand name. It was down the highway from a truck stop and a giant nudie bar. Funny how those things go hand in hand. I no longer look like someone from around there. I went in and asked if there were any rooms. The guy behind the counter replied yes, and how long I was staying. Just the one night. In his polite, Texas manner, he asked if I needed any maps of the area, etc. He was really just checking me out to see what I was doing there. I told him that I had grown up around there, and was going home to visit my grandmother's house for the last time. His manners changed, and he gave me a big discount, and told me that if I was hungry the closest thing to eat was fast food or the truck stop, since it was so late. He also told me how he had been in the Army, and so he understood that coming home could be hard. I just nodded and took my room key with a thanks for the discount and his service.
The room was fine. I was hungry. I put my suitcase down, and got back into my car and drove to the truck stop. The clientele when I walked in was mostly truckers and locals. This was a full service truck stop so, there was quite a few locals taking advantage of the family style restaurant. You could still smoke inside. There were no yuppies here. I felt at home and not at home, at the same time. That was a feeling that I had been used to my entire life. I didn't stay in the little town and get pregnant and marry some classmate. It was a comforting feeling of familiarity.
All of the waitresses were old, well older that retirement, but I knew times were tough, and so, I'm sure that they all still had to work for their families or themselves. If you weren't married, there wasn't a lot of security for single older women that they could create for themselves. I was being stared at...because I was no longer from around there. I sat at the counter, on a bar stool. One of the waitresses decided that she would put out her cigarette and brave waiting on me. Two bar stools down was this trucker, he was smoking an having all the free refills on his coffee that his one fucking dollar tip could get him. He sideways glanced at me...trying to figure out if I was going to me trouble of some sort, if he was going to have to teach me a lesson. Dude, seriously, I just want a to go dinner. That's it. I took the sticky menu, everything smelled like old grease and stale smoke...a toddler was running around without a shirt on trying to beg for quarters to play the machine where it might when a plush toy from China out of.
I put my cigarettes on the counter, they were Camels. That would signify that I might be ok. The waitress coughed, pointed at the menu, her hard lines not even mustering up a smile for service. I didn't blame her. I said that I was on my way home, and was just staying for the night, and hadn't eaten anything one the road today. I ordered a chicken fried steak with french fries and white gravy. I added a salad and a piece of pie. All to go. That was an acceptable meal for the crowd staring. She gave me a togo box, and pointed me toward the salad bar. The salad bar would have grossed out most people I live around now. The salad wilted, some random ranch dressing spilling over into the cottage cheese. The carrots all dried out with white lines on them and the skim on the canned peaches. I picked out what I could. I saw some pudding. I started to get some, and another old lady waitress stopped me, and told me that the pudding went with the all you can eat buffet, that I hadn't ordered that. I said ok, I didn't know. She sighed, hard. She said that she was sorry that she had snapped at me. I didn't really realized that she had actually snapped at me. I told her that it was no big deal. She said that she just felt terrible and I could get some pudding if I wanted. I think she was expecting me to tell on her or something. I told her that I really didn't need it...I was getting pie....so thanks for watching out for my big ass that sometimes speaks for my mouth. She coughed and laughed. We were ok.
My food was ready. It was shitty food, greasy and boxed up in plastic. When I got the check, it was only seven dollars. I looked at the old waitress that was helping me. Had I been at home, I would have spent four times that amount if I had gone out to eat. I left her a twenty dollar tip. She looked at the total, and said this thank you, that was extended and shocked. I was already out the door by the time she had started to point and show it around to the other staff and the trucker.
I picked though the food and turned on the t.v. back at the hotel. It was all Jesus, local news, pay for porn, and sports. I turned it off and slept.
The next morning I got up, quickly showered and packed up. I went into drop off the key and was given my ticket to my free breakfast. I went into the dinning room. It was basic eggs, bacon, sausage links, and giant biscuits. There was an old man eating his breakfast. He stared at me eating. He finally lit his cigarette and asked me where I was going. I told him. He was surprised that I knew so much of the area, and I had grown up there. Had I changed that much? or, was it that I never wanted to stay there to begin with? I still knew the language, the foods, the smells. And why did it matter if I wasn't from around there? What would the response have been? Hard to say. It's a rough part of the State. I downed my made from condensed, orange juice, and said goodbye. I was back on the highway.
The devistation from the fires was more apparent in the daylight. One could see where people had tried to backburn the fires away from their houses and barns. It would be hard to get back to norm for a bit. But, people in this area didn't really ask for help. They would take care of themselves. I suppose I got some of that.
The area had changed. More giant windmills had been put up on the Edward's Plateau. They looked offensive, finally erasing the last of the frontier. The last of the wild horses, buffalo, Indians and Cowboys. There were more prefab houses...which made me laugh. People had already bought them up. One good tornado and they would all be gone. Would a big tornado do anything to the giant turbines? Not sure. I hoped so.
I pulled into the small town, I had arrived. Things never really change here. The railroad stops were the same, the combines, the diners...they were all there. Rusty, older, but still there. All of it. I turned the corner to my grandmother's house. There is was. My grandfather had built it. I was almost forty, my father older than that, and my grandmother older still, but there was the house. The rose bushes, the line of pine trees, the giant century plant, the porch, the railroad ties....all there. I stopped the car, and the tears began...they had a mind of their own. As I stood out of the car, the dry heat hit me...it was the same, too.
A man came out of the backyard. He simply stated that he was the preacher of the church, and the Mayor of the town, and I must be the young lady who wanted to see the house. I said yes though the tears, and apologized for them. I asked if I could just look around. He said yes, and to take anything that I wanted. I asked what was going to happen to the house. He said that it would be scrapped for what could be reused, then mowed over to make a giant gymnasium for the church. I nodded my approval, but really I was thinking that's just what Jesus needs, a basketball court. Fucking Christians with their small town sports.
I walked forward. He kept saying that the house wasn't the same...that it wouldn't be what I remembered. He followed me, after I thought he was leaving. I cried more. Finally, I said fuck it. I didn't live here anymore, and I would never see this man again, so what did I care if he saw me upset. I toured the house. I looked at this man through my tears and told him that it was exactly what I remembered. Every shelf, every smell, I could see exactly where everything was...there had been life here...there had been lots of life here. And I could see it all. I began to take random things that my father either missed or didn't give a shit about. I walked around taking things in. I suppose saying goodbye to the old granny smith apple tree we used to all sit under in the swing on weekend visits. The giant garden long dried up, but the memories of all he plants that fed us, the long overgrown grapevines that I would sneak grapes off up to tide me over till dinner. The phone shelf, the flower aplicays, the creak in the floor, my grandmother's and grandfather's separate rooms and bathrooms, the rollout windows. The mirrors, the furniture, the organ, the painting the shelf of memories past. I could see it all. The garage, the tub outside, the playhouse, my grandmother's powder and hair dye. I could see it all. And it was time to say goodbye.
I no longer even talked to any family. But it wasn't all bad. I stuffed my car with all these random things. And I stood there in the heat, in the sun, in the wind, and said goodbye.
I drove back on the highway, for what I knew would be the last time of that drive. I no longer have business going there. I no longer need to be seen there. There is nothing for me. I'm not sure that I even have a good reason to visit the memories. I was alone in this. It was only my history. And even if I said it outloud, in the grand scheme of the world's history, it wouldn't matter. And where I though I would feel relief when people started to die off, when things would start to fade, I only began the realization that perhaps I was wrong in that. In fact, I was left with a hole in my heart, no past to tie it too, and an unknowing of how to tie the past with my present.
The only thing that I had to listen to on the way home was talk radio. There's not much radio out there. Jesus, latio and cowboy shows...that's just about it. I listened to the story of the Roman Centurian that put the nails in Jesus. I found myself saying to Jesus how sorry I was. I was deeply sorry that we hadn't learned anything from his death. Right now, in the dimming light of the day, there was someone getting off of work. Getting off of work at a job that required tourchering someone else. No, Jesus, we hadn't learned anything from your history, from the nails that were driven into your hands by another man, just doing his job. I thought about fights that I had been in. I fought, but I never thought that I wanted to drive nails into someone else's body. Yet, our history and our present showed that we have people who go to work, and that's their job. I drove along the highway, listening to the radio show, and apolgizing to Jesus, on his special weekend, until the signal from the radio station mixed with some heavy metal music and some talk sports and the sunlight was dimming. I turned the radio off and drove home. I was driving to my home that was my home now.
The pile of things from my grandmother's house has sat in my floor since that day. I just don't know what to do with it. And the garage sale piles haven't started yet. I am in limbo, and so are my memories. What would I find in there, if I looked? Am I being the best that I can be? Probably not.
But, I'm not an Imperialist. No, no one can call me that.
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