It has been
said, and perhaps said too loud, too much, and for far too long and taken far
too seriously, for my liking, and said perchance, unthinkingly that love is a cure all, now-a-days it has
become an ellipsis, of goodwill to all mankind ((Amnesty
International uses it sugar-coating very evil under the sun) (and
unfortunately, so does the Pope)). I say—there is an opposite side to the coin
of love (King David knew it
quite well); it can destroy good
sense and makes the loving person a fool, or worse. And this
story—non-fiction—I bring to your attention may prove my point, and I’m sure
the reader conceivably knows even more course tales on the subject than I! In
this story it is a mother’s abundant love, and abundant fear of her son!
She is at peace now, Catalina, it wasn’t that
way always in her earth-life, quite the opposite, living with and by her son;
and perhaps someday Facundo will come to his senses, see the wisdom of some
counsel, and in the process, breaking of old cadaverous habits for this too,
has brought to him an unsettle mind: trimmed into a surprising demigod of some
sort; and so remains to this day—not so unlike a man dragged wearily around in
circles by a demon (his eyes
doleful with some spine-tickling, and threatening; his voice like a high
squeaky violin)(his face like a latter-day mask of diabolical comedy, often
used on Halloween). His way
presently in earth-life I presume would be an absolute ecstasy of nightmare
only to awake and find himself (someday) conscious to a sorrowful life that is half
over if not nearly almost all over, at age thirty-eight.
She loved her child, Facundo, and loved
him well. —Facundo’s mother Catalina,
loved unconditionally, to her bitter end.
He was always angry, as was his way with
her and with her neighbors.
She obeyed her heart, not her logical
thinking, and the heart said ‘Do not mind him, overlook his mayhem, ’ 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 or stronger, and for the most part,
again she obeyed him, as an imp obeys his commanding demon, such as Arch Devil
Belphegor.
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 no
certain way 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 follow her and find
her. No telling what wackiness he was on the verge of doing, once found. He was
the dark personified element in her fear. His mysterious influence seized her
body and soul, every time we met, and she talked, she trembled. She told my
wife, “He’s going to kill me yet,” I suppose she meant beating her to death, or
mentally tormenting her to succumb to wish she was dead. She was sixty; and he
was no more than a bum, he didn’t work, he just complained.
She had written her will out, leaving
him half of whatever, his sister the other half.
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, —I don't know, but
possible a Neanderthal or feasibly better yet of the Denisovan
race, the proto-Neanderthals (heidelbergensis) their extinct cousins, 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 such chemical dependent substances, or alike: he need do
no more work, simply vacation. So the man-boy-beast dominated her, you could
see this on her face, hot dread; she was quick not to please him, or offend
him. He and I per near got into a fight on afternoon, and I’m in my late
sixties, and he back-off, a coward when it came to a man who challenged him.
Now that she is dead, what can he do,
and what can we say? I told 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 as we passed each other walking by Cherry Park, we even shook hands,
mingle with a few gestures, words, no residuum of sorrow about him, nothing in
his voice to indicate he was grieving a loss, —per near indifferent to her
passing, still possessed by his drug habit, and from what I saw of him, melting
away to nothingness; he was in another mind, in that he was out of his mind,
with inane behavior, and in a deplorable jumpy state. I didn’t hate him, and I
think he even liked me somewhat, yet I was to him his hovering snake-curse, as
the devil inside him felt the rhythm of God inside me, I showed no fear, and he
was of a revengeful mind; but being friendless, alienated, I was better than
nothing, a poor example of a friend, but nonetheless, I’d do I guess.
The neighbors blamed him for her death,
and some wanted to press charges against his provoking her death, there was
much irritation in their manners for this madman, but they did little to
nothing, as usual. My wife asked what I thought of it, why he had no emotions,
or regrets. I said “He’ll get them when he wakes up, and gets off the drugs,
then watch out, he’ll be suicidal.”
No: 1062 (5-15-2014/reeditad & revised 3-2016)
Reeditad: 7-2015
Spanish Version
“La
madre de Facundo”
(Marzo 2014: Lima,
Perú; San Juan de Miraflores)
Ella está en paz ahora, Catalina, no siempre fue
de esa forma en su vida terrena, casi lo contrario, viviendo cerca de su hijo,
y viviendo con él; y tal vez algún día Facundo llegue a escuchar la sabiduría
de algún consejo, y rompa viejos hábitos desagradables, porque esto también, le
ha ocasionado a él una mente perturbada, y así continúa a la fecha, su comportamiento
en la vida terrena. Ella amaba a su
hijo, Facundo, y lo amaba mucho—la madre de Facundo, Catalina.
Él todavía estaba enojado, como era su
comportamiento con ella, con los vecinos.
Ella obedecía a su corazón, no a su pensamiento lógico, y el corazón
decía: “no le hagas caso a él”. Él era
rápido con palabras duras para ella, así como esos golpes que le daba también
eran súbitos y rápidos, llevándose su dinero para las drogas; todos sabíamos
esto en el barrio, todos nosotros. Ella
le echaba la culpa a Dios por la forma de ser de él, por no ayudarla; pero Dios
nos puso a todos nosotros en su camino, para ayudarla, pero ella no se ayudaba
a sí misma; nos parecía a nosotros, que ella quería ser una mártir, y así lo
fue.
Bueno, ella no hizo ningún mal, y él
estaba sumido en su propio mundo de drogas inducido, y él obedecía al orgullo,
y ella le obedecía a él, lo que la condujo en contra de la advertencia de su
corazón de escaparse de sus malos tratos, como todos le habíamos dicho que lo
hiciera, pero ella no lo haría; y entonces él le dijo que no hablara con
nosotros, los vecinos, ya que ella se estaba volviendo fuerte, y como siempre,
de nuevo, ella obedeció.
De alguna forma, ella tenía el corazón
de una santa, con una dulzura de aureola, bondad y mansedumbre pero corta en
determinación a hacer algo, sólo echarle la culpa a Dios por su propia
terquedad para soportar.
Él, Facundo, había
dado a entender a los vecinos, de alguna forma, estar fuera de sus asuntos con
su madre. Y la mayoría lo hizo, pero no todos. No mi esposa ni yo, nosotros le
dijimos que fuera a un grupo de ayuda, o que se escapara del barrio, pero ella
sólo decía, que él la encontraría de todas formas. Sin contar qué tontería él estaba a punto de
hacer. Él era el oscuro elemento personificado en su miedo. Su influencia
misteriosa agarró su cuerpo y alma. Ella le dijo a mi esposa, “Él va a matarme
aún”, supongo que quiso decir que la golpearía a muerte, o mentalmente. Ella tenía sesenta años, él treinta y ocho,
no un niño, un vagabundo, él no trabajaba, sólo se quejaba.
Ella había escrito su testamento
dejándole la mitad de lo que sea.
Cabe la posibilidad que una mente
inconscientemente le dijo a la otra, ve y muere; como un perro o un animal, o
una flor, si no hay amor allí, eso es lo que hacen, ellos van para siempre al
polvo de la tierra. Él abusó de su
generosidad cálida y de su rápido perdón, y las drogas hicieron de él una
bestia primitiva, dominándola toda a ella, sin amor que se notara. Pero, por supuesto, esto es lo que las drogas
y el alcohol hacen: junto con sacar las emociones del alma. Esto es por qué el demonio puede jubilarse,
una vez que te mete en las drogas o el alcohol, él no necesita hacer nada más.
Así la bestia la dominaba, podías verlo en su cara, tremendo pavor; ella era
rápida en no dejar de complacerlo.
Ahora que ella está muerta, ¿qué puede
hacer él? Me pregunté, una vez que el dinero se acabe, ¿qué sigue? Ella tuvo un ataque al corazón, seis semanas
atrás, tal vez con una crisis nerviosa para completar: quién puede decirlo,
pero muerta lo mismo.
Para creer o no, algunos hijos, más
hijos de lo que se piensa, son así hoy en día.
Lo vi a él unos días atrás, él se detuvo
para saludar, dar la mano, alternado unos cuantos gestos, palabras, no había
rastros de pena en él que se notara en su voz para indicar que él estaba
sufriendo por una pérdida, todavía poseído por sus drogas, y por lo que vi de
él, fundiéndose en la nada; él estaba en otra mente, es decir estaba ido, con
un comportamiento absurdo.
Los vecinos lo culparon por la muerte de
ella, querían denunciarlo, había mucha irritación en sus modales por este
hombre irascible, pero hicieron casi nada.
Mi esposa me preguntó qué pensaba sobre esto, por qué él no tenía
emociones. Dije: “Él lo tendrá cuando salga de las drogas, luego, mira, él será
miserable”
No: 1062 (15-Mayo-2014)
