survival

[Bled Welder]

So I think I have survived that one.  Rough at the beginning, but we got
through the silence then the forced sibling-talk then the political talk
then we crash landed good into laughs about the idiotbox.  The only point
to make being, my cousin, my mother's eldest sibling sister, 's, eldest
son.  Stands at what must be big boy size.  I'm 6'3" okay, and go to the
gym often and just am cut, moving on to some maybe serious muscle.  This
dude is just big.  He must be six five and not overweight, but big, but not
muscular, but a full-sized dude, fully tatted, who, could probably take me
down, who are we kidding here.

I come down in a preliminary way in just a thin pair of shorts I've had
since I was 23 living in Haight in SF in 1998.  Ripped up, balls out, this
is my house, shorts.

I pick up some heavy luggage that's been assigned me to bring upstairs for
the people.  There's a lightning bolt hello to everyone and I depart.  Long
story short, Wherever I've lived in my life, SD, SF, LA, Key West, NYC,
I've always been flown home for this day of Bullshit.  That's not entirely
true but it serves the purposes of this story.

I'm living here now on a permanent basis until I find a wife and a job,
etc., and can get the fuck out of here.  Gorgeous place, but I grew up
here, okay?  The only places on earth I know as well as here is the far
west end of Williamsburg Brooklyn, east Williamsburg Brooklyn, and
everything south of 59th street in Manhattan.  But I don't want to be here,
I want to be back in NYc.  Or anywhere else on Earth.

I go upstairs, deliver that luggage, go back in my room and play music and
dance, which I'm not in the habit of doing but fuck it, I'm feeling good
and I'm preparing to go tell these aunts and uncles and cousins and nephews
and niece that this is my house now...the short end of this story being two
part.  Ha?  What the fuck am I talking about?

That giant oak tree out front, that intrepid god rising out of this central
earth, its acorns emitting squidular equatic-awake many legged bombuloids
of not destruction but eternal supreme Shawnee strength, falling at the
garbaged subdwelling surf-turf-shoes he wears entering this abode, do you
see that? I used to climb that oaken beast with my bare fucking feet when I
was six, okay?  That was long before my going-on-50s kamicockme dad went
into his first...I'm jealous of my son, I resent my wife, and I blame this
tree...phase and whacked off the bottom two thirds of its limbs, making it
obviously unclimbable to anyone not on dmt or psilcybin (of which I
jest--never, never attempt that at home).

My very toes, their very nails, grow, into this house, and then into the
earth beneath it.  That is how far down I go into this place, despite the
fact that I would rather be elsewhere.  With a job, I don't give shit I'm
willing to work, with a gorgeous brilliant or at least literate woman, and
even, while obviously I can't raise kids, I am willing to bring at least
one into this world.

So I drop off the luggage, upstairs.  Then I sit down on my bed, have a
glass of wine, write you blooming testicles about a certain song, etc.,
then go down for the TDay dinner...ready to fight.  But everything's
regular, and plus, now I'm in high spirits.  I take my seat.  But snaked
into the head of the table is that first eldest cousin of my mother's
eldest sister.  They live somewhere around here, he works IT for one of the
big companies around here, you cares.  And I dig his wife.  In past years
I've hit on her, being in other spaces.  But so I must presume therefore
that this guy is in some way appealing to me, right?  If I want to take his
wife over to a sofa and turn off the lamp, I must therefor also like her
husband, my first cousin?

Everything is plated and I come in, everyone is sat and beginning to eat,
and my IT cousin guy, who's woman probably everyone knows I'm hot for, if
they remember last year, old fucks, he's still wearing his motherfucking
baseball cap.  And this year, he's posited atop the cap, his deep
sunglasses.  I ignore it, try to say hello cordially to everyone, as they
do me, struggling each in their own tormented universe, and the passing of
the plates begins.

But fuck it, I've been freaking out about this, why not put balls into
action?  I say "Maybe take off the hat."   "Maybe show some respect."  His
wife says something about him being bald and gray, and I'm about to respond
when his fucking phone rings.  Are you kidding me?  At MY fucking table?
I'm about to say something, and then he clicks onto it and I hear something
about his son's wife having some sort of birthing complications.

Then I'm back to, *why are we even here*?  Who ordered this?  I don't want
to fuck your wife, I want you to leave my house, and my glorious oak, and
go take care of your kids.

But then I realize: his kids may think the same of him.  He is trapped
between, who made you?  Who made who?

...That's just a slightly higher version than the far weirder version of
the Hegelian master/servant dichotomy, the machine/man, etc....
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