(March, 2014: Lima, Peru; San Juan
Miraflores)
She is at
peace, Catalina, it wasn’t that way in her earth-life; but perhaps someday Facundo
will come to see the wisdom of some counsel, for this too is his way presently
in earth-life. She loved her child, Facundo, and loved well. —Facundo’s mother Catalina.
He was angry still, as was his way with
her, with the neighbors. She obeyed her heart, not her logical thinking, and
the heart said ‘Do not mind him.’ He was
ever quick with harsh words for her, as those beatings he gave her also were
quick and swift, taking her money for drugs; we all knew this in the
neighborhood, all of us. She blamed God for his ways, for not helping her, but
God put all of us in her way to help her, and she’d not help herself; it looked
to us, she wanted to be a martyr, and so she was.
Well, she did no wrong, and he was in
his own drug induced world, and he obeyed pride and she obeyed him, that drove
her against her heart’s prompting her to escape his evil ways, as we all told
her to do, and she wouldn’t do; and then he told her not to talk to us
neighbors because she was getting strong, and for the most part, again she
obeyed.
In a way, she had a saint’s heart, with
an aureole sweetness, goodness and meekness but short with determination to do
anything but blame God for her stubbornness to endure.
He,
Facundo, had expressed himself in resignation to the neighbors to stay out of
his affairs with his mother. And most of us did, not all. Not me and not my
wife, we told her to go to a support group, or escape the neighborhood, but she
said, he’d just find her. No telling what wackiness he was on the verge of
doing. He was the dark personified element in her fear. His mysterious influence
seized her body and soul. She told my wife, “He’s going to kill me yet,” I
suppose she meant beating her to death, or mentally. She was sixty, he
thirty-eight, no kid, a bum, he didn’t work, he just complained.
She had written her will out, leaving
him half of whatever.
There is the possibility of one mind
unconsciously telling another mind, to go and die; like a dog or animal, or
flower, if there is no love there, that is what they do, they go forevermore
into the dust of the earth. He abused her, warm generosity and swift
forgiveness, and the drugs made him into a primitive beast, dominating all of
her, with no love, noticeable. But of course this is what drugs and alcohol do:
along with cutting emotion out of the soul. That is why the demon can retire
once he’s got you on alcohol or drugs, he need do no more. So the beast
dominated her, you could see this on her face, hot dread; she was quick not to
not please him.
Now that she is dead, what can he do? I
asked myself, once the money is gone, what then? She had a heart attack, six weeks ago,
perhaps with a nervous breakdown to boot: who’s to say, but dead all the same.
Believe it or not, kids, more kids than
you think are like that nowadays.
I saw him a few days ago, he stopped to
say hello, shake hands, mingle with a
few gestures, words, no residuum of sorrow about him, nothing in his
voice to indicate he was grieving a loss, still possessed by his drug, and from
what I saw of him, melting away to nothingness; he was in another mind.
The neighbors blamed him for her death
wanted to press charges, there was much irritation in their manners for this
madman, but they did little to nothing. My wife asked what I thought of it, why
he had no emotions. I said “He’ll get them when he gets off the drugs, then
lookout, he’ll be suicidal.”
No: 1062 (5-15-2014)
