It has come to my attention that some of us characterize the Helen Chronicles posts as “rants.” Not so, grasshopper(s)!
They may be many things, but not “rants”: testimony, transmutation, therapy, LIBERATION perhaps, but not incoherent babbling. (That I leave to others.) They are how I turn shit into gold. If you could see me before, during, and after I write them, you would understand. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t, because they’re so intensely personal and written for me only — but they also have no effect unless they are public… If I wrote them down and stuck them in a drawer, no good would come of the procedure. ALCHEMY, bitches! Transmutation of damage into joy! Blessed freedom on the wind… The test of how free I am lies in how truthful I can be. If I hold back or sugar-coat, I’m still behind the eight ball.
My mother, God bless her, need only ever say, “I’m sorry. Please help me,” and the gates of Heaven would open up, dispensing love and angels. That’s it! (So long as she stops there…) Those five words and shutting up would alter her life in unimaginable ways, and I’m not referring merely to family matters. But no more blood for blood. It’s over. No mas. No more ripping off the scab, again and again and again. Phooey! Finito! Basta! The spell doesn’t work any more. I can still be blind-sided, though, which shows me where more wizardry is needed. Hah!
If I were to fall down on my knees, beg forgiveness, and perform every demeaning, contradictory, crazy-making task on her list, what would I receive in return? Affection? Pride? The long-lost inner certainty that all is right with the world? The peace, satisfaction, and sense of identity that comes from being a glowing, God-like component of the universal human family? No. Only the promise of money. Withdrawal of the implicit threat that I won’t get my share, such as it is.
Well, screw that.
Getting thrown out of her house last year was simultaneously one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced and just what the doctor ordered. If you understand that one dynamic, you grasp it all.
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Dear John,
They are no doubt Repugs!!!!!
I love your sharing , your honesty, your pain, your wisdom, your laughter, your rage, your everything. It is why I keep coming back and reading you .. You are brutally honest! You don’t seem to self edit or let your ego get in the way of your passion for writing what you feel, like or dislike. You are teaching me to be more open and honest .. You were born a teacher. Not everyone is. I am just sorry I never had a teacher like you. It would have made a huge difference in my life .
Blessings and light,
Patsy
I am hiring you to be my publicist. Unfortunately, the pay is very modest. In fact, the position is voluntary at the moment.
I don’t know what I was born as. That’s the whole point of these “rants.” Here I am almost dead, and I’m still FINDING OUT! If that’s honesty, great. I wasn’t like this before. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I was a walking mystery, unknown even to myself.
But here I am! And there you are! And WHERE IS THIS, anyway?!?
(Thank you.)
I accept your offer! I would chop wood or carry water but best of all, is being a friend.
The journey continues and thankfully so. The alternative is not something I am ready for yet. I too would like to know what my lesson is this time around. You keep chopping and I will continue peeling the onion.
Blessings,
Patsy