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When one gate opens, another one locks

2004-08-25 -

Technically, and occasionally, if you have too much to say, you shouldn't say it at all until you can accordian it down to a neat little kind of package, and then present it.

Having nothing to do with the statement above, it was the most amazing trip home, last week. I love my friends, family, and seatmates on the plane. I have no time to recount all of it, but I won't want to forget the highlights.

I bonded with my father when he helped me make almond milk until midnight the night before we (minus my father)picked up Bam Bam from incarceration. It came out really bad, but he drank it anyway. Champ. He never ate any of the other "food" I used to make out of stuff I found in the ground in the neighborhood years ago. Neither would my mother. Ok, let's not tell that story, it was their right to avoid eating things they couldn't comprehend or pronounce.

The ride to the prison was emotional and Bam Bam's son Junior got himself intoxicated the previous night and so he "slept" most of the way. On the parallel, when Bam Bam finally got into the car, he became motion sick, so we pulled over and while one threw up, the other had roadside sympathy pains. I almost took a picture, but thought again. Rory was familiarly neurotic the whole time, so to shush him up I handed him the two welcome home Bam Bam cds he was supposed to make, but conveniently forgot to. He calmed down only to insist that a) I make him a copy when I got home, and b) that everyone in the car listen to the Jeff Buckley Satisfied Mind track at top volume before we got there. Bam Bam's kids are more or less rap enthusiasts, so even though the cd was meant for the easy listening masses, I feel they tolerated it. Know your audience. The rest of the trip back was decent, save Bam Bam's wife(?) telling my niece Gigi to shut the fuck up, and that Bam Bam should get used to this, because it's 24 - 7, his daughter's attitude. Mostly his replies were of the "so I'm really free?" variety, so I'm not sure he heard her.

Bam Bam never got to have breakfast with his longer staying friends before he left the place, so we stopped at a diner and ruined his daily 300 carb count.

"What is this drink you got me?"

"It's milk."

"It looks like paint."

"That's because it's not powdered."

My cousin who has been channeling my mother, finally came through and I met up with her. Six years, it was time. She told me more about what my mother has been allegedly saying, but mostly it sounded like what she had told her a few times already. Maybe my mother's stuck in purgatory, or at minimum, not yet hanging out with a crowd that inspires her to think of new stuff to throw out there. That can happen. My cousin said she can channel her the best when she's had a few drinks. Big deal, I used to take a few puffs and accurately guess what color and how many phones people had at their place, and what hairstyle their friends had. Dead on.

On topic with my mother, while we're on it, I met the raw guy Drey who was a patient of hers for four years. Champ # 2! A very cool guy. We did a lot of eating, and he showed me spectacular photos of his gallbladder cleanse. You think this kind of stuff is only reserved for lucky me and the other three people he showed, I'd have to tell you no. He'll be putting them in a book eventually so that every interested party can benefit from them. Say I warned you, the photos are intense. He knew the side of my mother that I've always wanted to know. In session. We were both recipients of patient confidentiality, I had never met any of her patients, and her patients knew nothing about her personal life.

I was taken by the idea that Drey had been to my mother's grave many more times than I had. I've been there, but I could count the times on half a hand, and I certainly couldn't give you directions to the stone. Should have and could have, yes. But I don't like it there. I like funerals a lot better than the tomb n dirt. If not at all in the guest of honor, at least there's still some spark of life in the parlour people. Someone suggested later that maybe Drey could still go to her for sessions, because really, all the work done in session is internal work.

We sat there for a while and I guess if you were to ask me last month what my plans were for this day, I wouldn't have guessed. My brother's cigars and lighter were still sticking up out of the ground in front of the headstone, but there were some weeds that looked questionable so I pulled them and moved them over to the guy next to her. (very gently, I'm not a criminal) Thankfully I had my camera and we took a photo of the two of us in front of the tombstone. It wasn't as creepy as it sounds, and I'm sure she was proud of the two of us. If she should ever come back to life, understandably we could probably not be friends, although I get the impression that it isn't a nearsighted option. Walt Disney is first in line for a shot at melting the ice, if you get my draft.

On the last leg of my east coast prison tour, I saw Marty who has definatley matured since high school. He hasn't grown bitter, but one or two of the gatekeepers there certainly have. They made me spit out my gum. Ultimately, two and a half hours went a little too fast, and I figured a crying spell was inevitable, but Marty stopped me and miraculously it worked. I could go on about this case and this person, but I will sum it up with a title of a song that doesn't exist yet. Or two.

Let Him Out He's Not Your Property

If There Is a Heaven, It Won't Be Housing Prison Gatekeepers

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