(ALL TRUE). YOU CAN BE BORN CRAZY AND STILL BE THE NORM. riginal.
I've just spent a minute trying to wipe a 'streak' spec off my laptop glasses which was a streak behind my eyes. Diabetes playing up again. I tend not to worry about myself too much, as I'm a sort of male Mother Teresa. I can cure people one at a time. I turned a miserable pair of arguing screaming abusive parents (at each other, I wasn't molested just confused shitless) OUT of my life! Seperated from a stoush they were almost 'normal' as in 'hated' each other into a wry semblance of 'normality.'
Then again define normal. I left home after 17 years of shit. You see my mother was a lunatic...No excuse. Just maybe a tad? But they instilled in me a conscience. The person I cured was me. My dad didn't put his arms around me when I said goodbye. He said "don't get into any trouble I'd leave myself if I could." Bullshit. The reason he didn't have mum committed permanently was the guilt factor. Takes two to tango.
You see dad pined after his first wife. She was giving birth, there were complications. The doctor was late. He was pissed. It was after hours. Doctors back in those days...well it was different. Dad said the doc was doing his drunken best...botched it. His much loved wife and baby to be- died. Dad said that the doctor came up to him at the funeral and remarked, "you know Charlie, if I had of been sober I could have saved both of them."
Dad took a short vacation to the funny farm. I only found out when I was leafing through his old bible. Death certificates for his wife and baby, one other deceased child. The child died of some disease. Don't worry my f time came too. Been molested? beaten? drunken parents? I can hear you...I can hear you. Let down? abandoned when you needed someone most? Don't know your real parents? I'm listening.
Took my new wife down to meet my parents. Stayed overnight. The old babbling de javu erupted and went on and on...and on. Barging into the room babbling. Out. Barging in. Out again. Babbling. My wife said, "jeeze if I had to put put up with that crap for more than a few hours I'd go insane." I nodded, said nothing. 5am in the morning, return to babble on. Wireless blaring. Dad did nothing, just a resigned look. I rang the funny farm collectors...they collected. Yelling abuse and shit mum had a parting word as the two guys firmly pushed her into the car. "You've got shit on the liver...that's what you got." Could still hear her yelling abuse through the partially wound down rear window as the car eased slowly away...its wheels flicking the gravel up in sympathy.
Hadn't seen mum for 8 years. Dad said I'd better go see her as she had been in the 'special ward' for a long time, old, bedridden. My sister and I walked down the drab corridor. Stepped hesitantly into the room. This shrivelled up little woman lay staring up at the ceiling. Too tired and worn out from the hate for my dad and her mentally ill life to do anything else I guess.
She looked at me and tried to ease herself up...couldn't. My sister looked at me we were both crying. We eased her up put a pillow behind her. Mum tried to talk, couldn't. My sister took her false teeth out. Mum made a crackling noise. I think it was my name. Couldn't talk. She just stared, medication glazed eyes wide open- at me. I Held her blotched near lifeless skeletal arm. She just stared at us both.
Mum having it off with a stranger in a car up the back of our house. Rushing into the kitchen when I was 6. I was trying to eat my tea. Shouting at my brother, "your father said he was going to f...k me to death!" Leaving a rope noose outside my dad's door when he was sick, with a note..."go ahead and do it!" Forging dad's name, withdrawing a lot of money out of his bank account. Dad yelling. Half brother explaining what happened. Dad yelling, "she's not so mad as bad!" Mum attacking dad. A remake of 'ringside with the wrestlers.' The men who came and took mum away constantly. We cried. A while later Dad would say, "your mother's coming home today." We cried. She wouldn't wash. The crap would start all over again. Return to angst st via babble on.
The 'men' were busy. Brother holding dad retching and throwing up as they tried to wrestle mum into my brother's car to take her back to the 'unpromised' land'. Just a flood of bad memories with not a rock of 'goodtimes' to cling to mentally. My dear sister beside me cying as we walked out. Tried to deck herself earlier in her life. It all came flooding over me in a disjointed blur. Piercing the shield I had built up, prying, unpeeling. Then the 'special' place I created embraced me and I stood at my car talking to my sister as she wiped her tears.
On the way home we talked of old times and cheered up some. Like how mum would buy stuff...food...goods...useless stuff from the auctions and give it to the neighbours who would bring it back with an apologetic 'understanding' look on their faces. Reminisced how a young 'dick head' school clown like me said to my mum regarding a school literary scholarship. "Mum...if you don't think you could win that scholarship you wouldn't would you?" Mum shrugged. Put a soapy dish in the rack." No..." she said, pre-occupied...guess not."
I always wanted to be 'normal.' I wouldn't wear my glasses, so I used to make out I was sharpening my pencil and tried to memorize the blackboard, but I had purposely shut down my memory somewhat so the pencils got shorter along with my memory. I was standing there at school at the announcement of the boy girl scholarship award. The brainiest girl in school and the brainiest boy stood waiting. The girl won. The brainy boy waited.
He's still f....cking waiting. The 12 year old 'clown' won it! I couln't believe it! Everybody just stared. I stumbled forward confused...embarrassed. Took the proffered books with shaking fumbling hands. The scholarship you see was math and English orientated. Math I was shithouse at so it must have been the English? By mistake I was handed these 'girls' books...gold-edged pages, leather bound. Swapped them over for the 'boys' books with the well to do 'out of reach'girl whom I loved.
The scholarship was in memory of and perpetuated by a deceased headmaster, "Winner of the first Florence Campbell memorial Scholarship" the opening page read in bright blue ink. Had the headmaster been alive and found out Ii won it he probably would have died anyway! Eight books, David Copperfield whom I never met (joking) Martin Rattler etc. All 8 books written by second rate writers. (joking). Plus a cheque. My teacher congratulated me...I think there was a puzzled look on his face. Maybe I imagined the look?
Dad and his sparring partener rocked up in the powder blue near new FC station wagon. I later, when I gained my licence, hit a riderless run away milk cart and horse 2am in the morning with it but I won't get into that. I yelled out "mum! dad! I won! I won!" They looked at each other in disbelief then at me. So did I.
Dad was one of those people who praised you up AFTER you won or did good. Gave the cheque to mum. Bad mistake! Dad went round the neighbourhood telling everybody bout his brilliant son and how he wrested the scholarship from the kid who was 'destined' to win it. It was one of the best days of my crazy life! My sister laughed as she remembered how mum went on a spending spree with my cheque and bought a lot of potplants and other useless shit. Wait for it! And a journalism book at least 4 inches thick which I never read. Only read a few pages of my books too. No concentration.
Incidently, the girl book winner whom I gave half a frozen orange to one day to curry favour (would have been better giving her the favoured curry?) was from a top class family. Very strict upbringing...no shit in her family but she caused some later in life when the police picked her up off the street and drove her home one night, telling her parents, for the want of a better description..."your daughter is rooting round town!" Go figure! Had I known I would have hit town that night with a box of frozen oranges!" My sister laughed again when I told her how, as an honour, I was chosen to present a gift to my teacher who was 'moving on.' Maybe because he was suffering aftershock at the dill in the class taking a leaf from his book of amazement!
So there I was. Wasn't gonna wear my glasses. Shit! budding Hemingway's don't wear glasses! Hell no! I started walking towards my normal classroom about 25 metres away carrying the gift. Walked straight past the teacher who was up the other end. Everyone was pissing themselves including the teacher. Walked the 'laughter line' back. I passed him the gift and he laughingly accepted it. What a dumb arse.
My sister said, "remember the day mum threw a rubber mallet at dad because you wouldn't wear your glasses?" We started cracking up again. "Remember the day mum and dad took you down the beach for an unpleasant day?" I grinned. They started fighting in the tent on the beach, it was blowing a gale. The tent main support broke. Looked like a huge demented brown mushroom having a fit. Only there for a half an hour. Packed up, Cheech and Chong arguing all the way home trading sand whipped baleful glares." We were stilll laughing as I pulled up Dad's driveway."How's your mother?" Dad hadn't seen her in a while." "Not too good Dad."
Talking to my other half brother's wife (brother later died of lung cancer). "How's your mum?" "Not that well..." Peggy grimaced. "Ahhh...she'll live on...people like her live a long time..." Wasn't her exact words but the inference was that crazy people outlive the so called norm. Mum died about 4 weeks later. As I stood there at the gravesite a flood of memories swept over me...FUNNY CRAZY ones.
A neighbour I hadn't seen in a long time came over... placed some flowers on the grave. I used to hang out with her sister. The very pretty, well groomed, married, Betty, kissed me on the cheek. "Your mum was a real character wasn't she?" I pursed my lips...exhaled..."that she was Betty."
People crowded round swapping stories about mum. Mainly funny ones.
I kid you not I could blow 'One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest' into the weeds. Why don't i? I'm a lazy frigging hack writer. Only scratching the surface of my weird life. I'm not a self pitying wanker writing comedy which was suggested some time back. I'm just a wanker writing pitiful comedy my way...some things work some don't.
Came real close to my dream and had guff 'borrowed' by some top people whom I thought were okay. Won other stuff. Offered a job once by a top bloke in the ABC. Damn me if he didn't go to America. Bummer! I'm happy to be alive. LUCKY to be alive. My missus checks my pulse quite often. She puts her 'pulse hand' in some weird places. Maybe some of me has rubbed off on her...it would appear so?
PLEASE! if this blog gets up don't put messages like "you poor bugger up!" I'm broke but I'm not poor. Don't take uppers or downers...nothing but unadulterated insulin. I'll make an assumption. I bet at least over a quarter and nearing the half mark of all you writers in America have had three times my crap thrown at you. Had your emotions shredded and dreams torn? Your physical being and your God given RIGHT just to be a kid battered and bruised? Write about it! Talk to people like Barb, HRC, M09, Uttam, Annie, etc.
If you're too shy start a diary. Put your favourite music on and dance round the room. For shit sake don't keep going back to the same old place. I know it's hard. Build a quiet place in your thoughts, and if you think no-one cares about you, I, and 99.9% of the writers at Broowaha do. Fess up that lousy 1% er. Love one another...feel each others emotional pulse. Each new day is another shitty day...(joking).
I'll tell you what to do when you're going for a job. Relax...look your prospective employer in the eye. If he/she has two all the better. If things aren't going well imagine that the prospective employer's genitals are where their noses are. HE shakes his head. Think about it! Is he giving you short shrift or an extended long drawn out spiel? SHE shakes her head. Reincarnation of Hitler's mo needing a trim up or an outback bushwalker? A nasal Brazilian waxing lyrical? Think about them blowing their respective noses! You won't get the job but you'll PISS yourself on the way home!
If you're ringing up to see if you've got the job or not, be polite. You can say things like
"I'm just checking to see if 'short shrift' has made a ball part descision?" or...
"has little nob turned up?"...or "is long John Silver or his parrot hanging round...could I speak to the beak please without ruffling his feathers." Or, in HER case.
"could I have a word with Ms loose lips Scarlet o Hara please or has she "gone with the wind!" Or,"may I speak to the Bernude a Triangle please." Or,
"would Madam Tosshard and her wax museum be open yet?" Or,
"would the bearded lady be hedging her butts on the 'right stuff?" Or,
"could I speak to Loose seal when she comes back where she belongs?" Or,
"would lady in red be showing today because she sure looked pissed off when I last talked to her?"...don't be afraid...imagine your employer has nothing on.
When he or she picks up their mobile trying to impress you and wanking round the office going "YO! YO! GOTCHA! YO" it's not their stockbroker...it's the overseas Chinese telemarketer selling cut price yo- yo's!
If the prospective employer offers you a push button coffee be honest...just say "don't drink the shit!" You won't get the job but you'll piss yourself on the way home and isn't that what life is about?
Listen...before I forget. Most important. Hug your kids and tell them you love them and everything will be ok. Treat each other like yews would if yews were a big fat lazy parking inspector with a quota to fill. Just kidding...after all where would we be without parking inspectors?...probably home another fifteen minutes earlier. Don't argue with them. They have cages to go home to just like you.