sent from: Waterloo Station, London, USA. destination: Corte Madera, California, USA |
Another evening listening to praises sung to my sister and the many things that she does amazingly well. These praises were sung by my parents. Having concluded this, the attention turns to me and a different set of stories. Of how amusing I was a child with various hand puppets, how I said the funniest things when frustrated with this or that. And, of course, bed wetting stories. Lots and lots of those, it seems, far more than I could recall or of course remember, as they happened before I had any sense of myself. The stories are told with no malice or intention to hurt, but a thin layer comes off every time they are repeated; something sore is revealed. I can feel my nerve endings closer to the surface, fiery to the touch. Soon, all that’s left is the blood, waiting to be drawn.
It’s a Monday. I never used to have Monday blues, but I do now.
I do think there are some things that parents should keep to themselves, or better still, decide to forget them.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178055
all parents do that juan …you just have to grin and bear it ….i hope i dont do it to za and zain….but who knows ?