लोवे Focus on Love.

Put the needle on a little Ornette.

Ornette Coleman Trio plays "Golden Circle," Stockholm, 1965.
Sounds like people tryin to stay warm.
Like creating an insulating bubble just big enough for that particular club,
for those musicians and that audience's open ears.
Great music to write to.
Right Now's perfect album.

I've realized, far more often than I find comfortable, that I'm not nearly as pissed off as I maybe should be. Or I'm just not writing when I'm pissed off. Or I'm getting distracted by the minutiae of my irritants and losing sight of the overarching injustices that I really oughtta be attacking.
And then not writing about it.

See, I've been having these godawful nightmares about the eventual, emotionally-vampiric visit of my now-mother-in-law, singlehandedly the meanest, most manipulative, psychically damaging/ed person I have ever met.
And I've spent jaw-dropping afternoons with lifelong Klansmen, fer chrissakes.
Those hooded monkeys ain't got shit on Hurricane Beverly.

There are circumstances that prevent my flat-out forbidding her from ever interacting with us again, circumstances too sacred for me to even consider contradicting. That may be why most of my dreams this month involve killing her in really slow, clinically involved processes.
Since murder isn't exactly something that appeals to me outside the realm of desperate fantasy, I'm left with this painful little dilemma, this trying to figure out how to "take care of" this awful woman without allowing her to run roughshod over me or, more importantly, Otter's and my relationship.
Cause Otter's and my thing is way too special to allow anyone to try and tinge it with anger, resentment, malice, backbiting, verbal manipulation, goading, spying, accusation, guilt trips, lies upon lies upon lies upon lies! Or, y'know what? Jeezusfuckinchrist, we're just too goddamned volatile to be bathed in anything but Love and our own Righteous Indignation.
...and Duck Fat.

...mmmm, duck faaaat.

The things that we fight, the institutions we speak against, and the ideologies we try to expose are quite enough negative bullshit in our lives.
Our home is where Love lives.
It's where we regenerate.
It's not where we're martyred.
Not even by his Mama.

So, I'm all wound up in the tiny personal details of this Bundle of Insidiousness who insinuates herself into our lives so often (if she comes down anywhere close to XMas, it'll be three, three times in six weeks), and I'm losing/have lost sight of the Big Picture. Assuming there is one. And if there ain't one, I intend to paint it.

The Big Picture is nestled somewhere deep in our hearts, is breathing in the air around us, is dripped from every palm leaf, is in the throat of every little Anole that follows me around the garden. The Big Picture in my life, in our lives, lies in our ability and desire to help those less fortunate than ourselves. We are remarkably capable of feeding people's bodies. We are also able to feed their souls, whether by birthright or fortunate upbringing (my mama, his daddy, both beautifully conflicted, warmhearted, just, and altruistic individuals), people seem to find us, to seek us out, and to gain some sense of joy and wellbeing from hanging out with us.
I know why.
I don't know why.
I know if I look it straight in the mouth and try to define it, it'll lose some sort of Power in its own awareness of itself.
...
My Mama told me once, several times, that I will not be able to effectively help anyone else if I do not take care of myself first. I rejected this piece of wisdom for a lot of years. It sounded too much like the All-American "Look Out for Number One" mentality that has destroyed so many, many lives. But the more I tried to help people without taking the time to help myself, without setting up my own sacred little parameters for personal growth and safety, the crazier and angrier I got.
The more resentful.
The more self-destructive.
Until it finally occurred to me that destroying myself would pretty much insure I'd never be able to help anyone again, ever.
How's that for a waste of a perfectly lovely life?
...
(turn the rekkid ovah)
...
So, I know this thing with Otter is the most beautifully, ridiculously sacred thing I've ever run up against.
I know that, between the two of us, we can help a hell of a lot of people, including each other.
And I know that, when his mother's in town, his heart beats hard like a train comin full tilt down a rickety old wooden bridge.
I know that when she stays with us, he feels caught in the middle of her hurricane and my planet-sized meltdown.
I know that when she's here, I don't sleep worth a shit.
I know that we fight more when she's here.
I know that, when she's here, our house is not a home, much less our home.
We have no sacred space.
We have no privacy (she peeks when we're sleeping and goes through our things when we're away).
I haven't stood up to her because I don't want him to have to choose between us ('cause that's just fucked up, folks, let's face it).
He won't stand up to her for the vow he made to "take care of" her.

Thing is, I made a vow, both to my Mama and my brother, to the ghost of his father, that I would take care of him.

I don't generally make promises.
I certainly don't vow anything or take sacred oaths.
Honoring that sort of thing is way too important to trust to my flaky ass.
You make promises, you'd better fuckin keep 'em, so I don't make 'em too terribly often.
But two weeks ago today, I made a big one.
I looked my Mama dead in the eye and told her I'd care for this man until one of us dies.
I promised my brother.
I promised the portrait of Otter's dead daddy that hangs on our wall.
I promised him.

The thing between us and within us is our Big Picture. It is nebulous and vaguely defined.
But it is solid.
It is Holy.
And it is the most fantastic gift I have ever been given.
The most fabulous opportunity I have ever been offered.
It is the beginnings of everything toward which my life has built.

It behooves us to redefine the parameters of that "taking care" commitment.
We need to nurture ourselves in order to nurture others.
I'll be goddamned if I know how to do that, but we'd better figure it out, and soon.
'Cause she'll kill him if we don't.
I can't let her do that and honor my vows to him at the same time.
I don't take those vows lightly.

Premonitory Anecdote

A gentleman at the bar last night, by way of good wishes for my upcoming marriage, told me this tiny story about his parents:
-----------------------------------------
"My parents have been together for 57 years.
They met in grade school & crushed on each other,
became sweethearts in high school,
got married as soon as they could,
and have been together since.

"Recently, Dad told Mom that if she dies first, he couldn't see it being more than two weeks before his own heart gave up and he joined her on the Other Side. Only slightly kidding, Mom said,

"What on Earth could you possibly have to do for two weeks?"
-----------------------------------------

What a wonderful thing.
Makes my skin crawl with recognition.

Four days 'til the Weddin.
See you soon.

All my love,

rd