The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.
I think my memories must wait impatiently somewhere in lines to be called up. I can’t make them come Maybe because I am old my mind is getting crowded. I have watched women. And it is different for them. Because they have seen dreams as young girls do, and even the mirrors bow to that.
Glimpses of mortality always seem to interrupt otherwise perfectly fine days. I was pushed westward on a hospital gurney towards an open window that let in a good mouthful of late afternoon-sunset. I loosened my hold on the sides of the hurried bed to raise my arms again. The rhythm of the massive, clanking chains began to hesitate. The machine was straining to pull the cars up and over the first plywood mountaintop on The Thunderbolt roller coaster ride at Kennywood Park in Pittsburgh. I could hear more than one rider in the front seats coaxing the machine to try harder. Their fear seemed to pour backward over the cars. I was in the very last car.
The first two wagons achieve the peak, then slowly the third creeps over the top. Everyone was silent or screaming. Then the coaster began to drift back toward where my dad and I had stood with my ticket, skipping turns to get me into the very last seat by myself — the most fun car.
The cotton candy breeze blew on the back of my neck. My father had told me, “if you want to be brave, let go of the bar on your lap as you go over the top and wave your hands above your head.”
I shot backward down the hill, I closed my eyes and raised my arms into the air.
The wheeled hospital stretcher stopped short of the yawning afternoon window and curved left into the operating room. My arms stretched high and straight. My dad stands next to me, wearing a white mask that does not hide his eyes. “Did you see me, did you see me?” I said. My father raised his arms above his head and started to cry.
The finest women of my generation would be heading down to Alabama to confront this abortion shit, not sitting around trying to parse another female savior or fretting about getting pinched on the ass a decade ago.
Keith insisted the two of them had a connection. It was awkward. The woman was my mother. She was beautiful by any standard. Moon started to sexualize her soon after I showed him a photograph snapped of my mother in a flowered smock, the ordinary, shapeless, tent of a day dress popularized in the fifties. It was my second North American tour with the Who. I had settled in. It did not seem to matter to him that she was now eighty-five. Of course, that says something easily predictable about him. Ridiculously, this did not counterbalance my discomfort. I am not anybody’s definition of a prude. I have done and seen too much, but this was my mother he was wanting. He was smitten with her in that shy British way. He would talk to the photo like he would to prostitutes. As if he might be successful provided he played his cards just right. He would bring mother up to me out of nowhere, regularly wanting to see the picture. The trajectory of my mother’s life and death were, looking back on it now, much the same as his, inevitable and sad. She wasn’t much nailed down either. I saw them as hapless geese plowing deliberately into the propellers of an aircraft taking off from God’s airport. Neither the plane nor their shared psychosis was willing to alter course. They had no chance. I loved them both. My mother more. Their broken feathers scattered all around me. Moon’s drifted over everyone. She died conveniently between tours. He did not often mention her after that, except to question whether I was any closer to locating a dress like the one in the photo. Of course, in his size.
PUBLISHED: May 23, 2018 FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds