I thank my mother
I thank my mother for having eight kids in nine years ...
I thank my mother for never coming to school for parent functions ... it
bred a sense of inferiority that became a inner motivating force greater
than the driving force planted in peers by their supportive parents. John
Maynard Keynes paradox of saving has a childhood timistic parallel. If everyone
saves all their money, there is no spending to create demand for jobs so
everyone becomes unemployed with nothing to save. Likewise, if parents do
everything for their children so as to stifle and destroy the drive to be
a problem-solver, humanity has no problem-solvers and the family has no future.
Where is the golden mean between the extremes of depletion and depravity?
I thank my mother for moving every two or three months because she never
paid rent ... it bred a sense of insecurity that prompted me to seek not
only financial safety but to question the meaning of life at an early age.
I thank my mother for the club toes that I view every time I take a bath.
My crooked roots are a reminder of my wearing shoes that were too small,
deforming my toes like a chinese girl with her feet bent back by wrappings.
More than one person has noted my "clumpy", swaying walking which comes from
not having toes optimally functioning to balance. I'm surprised I did so
well in springboard diving competition with those stubs. I am always amazed
at people with long, limb-like toes that seemingly could play a Rachmanikoff
composition on a piano.
I thank my mother after I complained of no food for almost beating me to
death when I was eight. I gave the wrong answer to her question of choosing
either her house or reform school. The beating prompted me to get out of
her house. If there was one reason why I was the only one to graduate from
college it was this event that led to a more stable home with my
I thank my mother for seeking free time by farming her brats out to her new
friends one of whom repeatedly stuffed and raped me at the age of seven.
I thank my mother for providing me with many examples of what I did not want
to be ... the things I dislike most in me are those that I disliked in my
mother--particularly over-eating to become fat.
I thank my mother for prompting me to seek beauty in life because she had
made my life so ugly as a child.
I thank my mother for my not having to watch my children and grandchildren
suffer and die from the accelerating global dying. She made me think that
childhood was horrible and that people with kids were mean and nasty. It
must have been pretty bad that I had this attitude despite the evidence
everywhere about me in the envy I had for the schoolmates who seemed to have
everything that I wanted in life.
I thank my mother for prompting me to be good because she was so bad, to
not have others think of me as I found myself and siblings embarrassed by
her appearance and actions.
I thank my mother for the mental monster that troubled me for decades not
only for its consistent re-occurrence but for the accompanying question of
whether I was really insane on the precipice of committing a horrible crime.
For almost half a century I could not be in a kitchen without the thought
of getting a knife to kill the other person. Because I feared I might do
it, I avoided making friends. One day, an epiphany: When my mother almost
beat me to death at age eight in the kitchen, I had planned to knife her
to death in that kitchen before realizing I needed to move, not kill. What
a horrible decision to foster and force upon a child of eight! So horrible
that it was a repressed memory that was so horrible it came "deja vu'd" each
time I was in a kitchen. For years the monster came near the conscious surface
but not sufficiently to recognize its origin. How horrible to be washing
dishes for thousands of times standing next to the wife you love and wondering
if you are going to suddenly stab her? Thanks, mom. When one day I realized
the origin of this mental monster, it ceased to be a consistent companion
in kitchen where one is supposed to get nurture not nightmares (see
I thank my mother for teaching me to not sweat the small shat because she
made life so shatty ... my response to the existential meltdown of global
dying is one of melocholic placid observation rather than mad abandonment.
I thank my mother for never being home and never taking us places like other
mothers ... my response was to repeatedly peruse the 20-volume World Book
encyclopedia five times by the age of eight which gave me a basic knowledge
of many topics far better than my peer ... reading was a refuse from an
uncomfortable, often unbearable homelife.
I thank my mother for ignoring me during my formulative years when I was
learning to speak ... the result was a speech impediment which I foolishly
refused to have corrected in 3rd grade. This speech impediment precluded
an appointment to Annapolis which prompted me to enunciate at the age of
19. In the end, its polished offspring became an asset in people remembering
me--see the voice.
I thank my mother for memories of life so bad that I know when I will
self-euthanize in the coming collapse and death of life on earth, for I never
want to return to the hell on earth that I experienced in the first years
of my life.
I thank my mother for the lasting discomfort that I feel around people ...
a statement that will surprise many who view me as an extrovert. From the
early awareness of social inferiority and home insecurity, I realized that
good grades were not going to get me accepted by others so I became the class
clown acting up and acting out. The truth is that I had no friends not because
of my being a reading nerd who got good grades but because of my mother moving
too often to build friendships to weather the travails of the classroom.
How often was I laughed with versus laughed at?
Some will think that this listing indicates a troubled soul. Quite to the
contrary thanks to Socrates.
The unquestioned life is not worth living.
I am saner than most people because I know my insanities.
The latter is a paraphrase of "I know more than most people because I know
what I don't know." As most know-it-alls know very little so are
the saner-than-all quite insane. Academia is full of highly
trained--not highly educated--petty minds who confuse degrees and tenure
with moral sanity. As white people usually don't get it when it comes to
value and humanity of black people, so the sheepskin-clad phidos don't get
it on a larger, broader and higher existential plane.
I enjoy immensely the people who have deemed to judged me from their pot
overflowing with dysfunctional relationships. I am entertained by those who
say I don't deserve to be so happy, souls who have lived beyond their means
trying to be something other than be an honest, happy human. Equally revealing
of their own inner lives are the people who seek a higher moral ground by
saying, "It must be nice to be
perfect." Would be if there
were not so many imperfect people seeking happiness by seeking to destroy
the happiness of less imperfect problem-solvers. Memorable was the
psychologist who asked me, "Can you handle the truth when you wake up to
it?", a woman who has mothered two human failures, a parasite hilton wannabee
and a high school dropout druggie. The latter steals war medals from his
grandfather and steals cash from relatives' billfolds.
Some say that I have no right to criticize others' failures because I have
not walked a mile in their shoes. Wrong. I wisely chose not to go a mile
in the wrong direction. I have a right to criticize parents who cannot
financially, mentally or emotionally raise unhealthy kids. Been there, suffered
that. I wisely chose not to be a prolitter in an overpopulated world. I have
a right to criticize others who are walking their miles over my property
rights to a safe, sane world as they live beyond their means by taking my
means to survive.
without means are
who make less meaningful their lives, the lives of their unplanned fetuses
and the lives of wise meaningful bystanders.
If one can list one's insanities one becomes less insane. Insanity is basically
living a lie about onesself or one's world. Once one realizes how one has
lied to onesself, one can either learn the truth hidden by the lie or, if
no harm is done, live the lie as a joke to be shared with one or all. Laughing
at onesself is a catalyst to fewer harmful insanities but not necessarily
Lucky I did not kill my
Created by Linkstat.bas\Program
05-22-2015 @ 07:32:34