Day 131.365 - For Mother’s Day (“You gotta give credit to the things that crush you.”
-- Johnny Budrone
“. . . for despite the fact that she loved him with all of the depth, craziness, and thrilling impurity a dysfunctional, narcissistic, codependent, sex, alcohol and pill-addicted woman could love, she secretly believed he was beneath her, and that he should have been grateful until his dying day that she had nobly condescended to love him.” - Colors Insulting to Nature by Cintra Wilson
I never wanted to be like my mother, but there are moments when I realize that I am more like here than even I imagined I would be become. This becomes painfully evident when I realize I am probably making a lot of the same mistakes she made. There is a whole mystery about her life that I do not know the details of and that I may never know. I have created my own idea of what happened to her based on the bits of information that I have gleaned from the family.
Every family seems to have some core secrets or dramas that comprise the fabric binding genetically similar beings together. It clans us to guard each other’s skeletons. Daddy is a transvestite. Mommy is addicted to barbiturates. What have you.
My family’s secret isn’t that scandalous, but I suppose it was for an immigrant family in New York City in the early 1960’s. A very Catholic immigrant family.
It would be inappropriate (and, frankly, not that shocking) for me to divulge such secrets to the public, suffice to say it involves my mother making bad decisions about men.
In my version of events, she is like me. She is so enamored by passion and the idea of love that she deposits herself into the wrong pockets of humanity, hoping to find some Adonis misfit who will, hope beyond all hope, finally get her. She will be everything he could possibly want. She will fuck him like it’s the last time every time. She will surprise him with her brilliance and stun him with her compassion. He will not have a choice but to fall under her spell.
The thing people don’t realize is that magic, spells, are pretty easy to cast. They are ephemeral, however. You might not notice the enchantment until it is gone. You will only feel the absence of the allure, and you will be petulant for it’s return.
I told my darling girlfriend, Mela, that I lavish affection upon the wrong men. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think it’s ever wrong to care for someone if your intentions are genuine. Even if that person doesn’t deserve your generosity. It is wrong, however, to feel foolish for having the courage to love. It is wrong to love unconditionally and then feel slighted when you are taken advantage.
My mother never taught me anything explicitly about how to be in relationships with men except perhaps by showing me how to manipulate situations. And now, I never know if I am sad for the wrong person. My artifice is genuine. I know I am making mistakes that seem ingrained, inherent, maybe even genetic. I do not blame her for her tainted legacy because she is a woman that I do love unreservedly. She is, after all, my mother.
Day 131.365 - For Mother’s Day (“You gotta give credit to the things that crush you.”
-- Johnny Budrone
“. . . for despite the fact that she loved him with all of the depth, craziness, and thrilling impurity a dysfunctional, narcissistic, codependent, sex, alcohol and pill-addicted woman could love, she secretly believed he was beneath her, and that he should have been grateful until his dying day that she had nobly condescended to love him.” - Colors Insulting to Nature by Cintra Wilson
I never wanted to be like my mother, but there are moments when I realize that I am more like here than even I imagined I would be become. This becomes painfully evident when I realize I am probably making a lot of the same mistakes she made. There is a whole mystery about her life that I do not know the details of and that I may never know. I have created my own idea of what happened to her based on the bits of information that I have gleaned from the family.
Every family seems to have some core secrets or dramas that comprise the fabric binding genetically similar beings together. It clans us to guard each other’s skeletons. Daddy is a transvestite. Mommy is addicted to barbiturates. What have you.
My family’s secret isn’t that scandalous, but I suppose it was for an immigrant family in New York City in the early 1960’s. A very Catholic immigrant family.
It would be inappropriate (and, frankly, not that shocking) for me to divulge such secrets to the public, suffice to say it involves my mother making bad decisions about men.
In my version of events, she is like me. She is so enamored by passion and the idea of love that she deposits herself into the wrong pockets of humanity, hoping to find some Adonis misfit who will, hope beyond all hope, finally get her. She will be everything he could possibly want. She will fuck him like it’s the last time every time. She will surprise him with her brilliance and stun him with her compassion. He will not have a choice but to fall under her spell.
The thing people don’t realize is that magic, spells, are pretty easy to cast. They are ephemeral, however. You might not notice the enchantment until it is gone. You will only feel the absence of the allure, and you will be petulant for it’s return.
I told my darling girlfriend, Mela, that I lavish affection upon the wrong men. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think it’s ever wrong to care for someone if your intentions are genuine. Even if that person doesn’t deserve your generosity. It is wrong, however, to feel foolish for having the courage to love. It is wrong to love unconditionally and then feel slighted when you are taken advantage.
My mother never taught me anything explicitly about how to be in relationships with men except perhaps by showing me how to manipulate situations. And now, I never know if I am sad for the wrong person. My artifice is genuine. I know I am making mistakes that seem ingrained, inherent, maybe even genetic. I do not blame her for her tainted legacy because she is a woman that I do love unreservedly. She is, after all, my mother.