Sometimes It Gets Real Heavy, or, Recurring Reconciliations
by Sub-commandante X

To: Lady of the Nomads

Subj: Beware Long Good-Byes

Apropos of nothing, dear lady, were you talking to me? Of love? Or, were those just random comments on 1) jerking off, 2) pussies and blowjobs (“so easily gotten”), and 3) let’s not forget that old favorite, cyperporn.

Well, OK… Yeah, and the sky’s still fucking blue, but what, pray tell, are you trying to say? For a college educated self-styled ‘communicator’ your letters, emails, face to face talks, and phone calls, tend to leave mucho to be desired.

Hope your book-in-progress fares better. But, somehow, I doubt it. Some may tell you, “You project as a thinker.” But, others might say, “She comes across like bullshit with an attitude. One who just drops big name quotes without offering any original insights.”

Now, you know, I can’t be swayed by talk like that. So, please, tell me straight, what’s on your mind? What are you really trying to say? Or, is that, gracious lady, asking too much?

Oberon
Lord of Shadows

Postscript: Apparently, it was asking too much. She tells me she’ll never, ever, talk to me EVER again. (Promises, promises.) When there’s nowhere to go why would you want to go there? I’m outta here. (Poof!)
(Now, remember, you promised.)

N.B. What can I say? She wrote, she called, she invited me out to New Mexico. OK, I melted. (So sue me.)

To: Dear Lady of the Nomads

Subj: Sometimes it gets real heavy

Got your note today. You might want to try to visualize the desk and kitchen with the Espanola scenary out the window. Seems the universe can use some energy to give us what we want (or so I’ve heard).

Just got back from Mitch’s funeral. Native Americans seem to have an acceptance and understanding of the ‘oddballs’, or the ‘contraries’, in society. You know, those who just don’t fit in, and never will.

The elders know that these are living lessons for the whole tribe. Spirit’s special mark, so to speak. They often have talents and abilities that the status quo can’t conceive of. Mitch was one of those.

I had a moment with his Mother. She told me they had to get the key from the landlord. They were calling for days with no answer. When they got in, they found him under a table.

Apparently, the result of his last sweet seizure. And heart attack. Mitch had diabetes all his life. Juvenile diabetes as a child, and full blown diabetes as he matured.

He was prone to epileptic seizures that often left him bruised and dazed for hours. His life was no bed of roses, obviously. Steady jobs and lasting relationships were not part of his resume.

Mitch and I were neighbors in the same run down apartment house by the railroad tracks. We were both displaced New Yorkers by choice. He was seven years my junior and he lived right above my flat.

Occasionally, I would hear him fall down and thrash around in uncontrollable seizures. The modus operandi for such an event was to call on the phone to see if he was conscious. Then to go upstairs and bang on the door, maybe we could be of help.

He treasured his independence and repeatedly refused to give either his family or neighbors a spare key. “I ain’t dead yet”, he would say by way of ironic explanation.

Early on, we found that beyond both being from New York, we had gone to the same college in California, San Francisco State. At different times, of course, but there was always a bond between us.

His Mother told me that Mitch had mentioned that I had a “new girlfriend.” I told her, he must have been talking about La Rosa.

My friend, who just recently went back to New Mexico, has invited me out to see her. So, I’ll be heading for Albuquerque next month.

That lovely woman, with all the grief and pain around her, took my hand and said, “Get it while you can.”

I thanked and kissed her. I had no idea she would even know who I was, let alone at a moment like that, to remember what her son had once told her of my love life. Incredible.

Ana knew that Mitch was dead when she gave his parents the landlord’s phone number. If you’re psychic you don’t tell people too much. Especially, if they’ll find out by their own means anyway.

My neighbor sees things. Yeah, sometimes it gets real heavy around here.

Stay well, I miss you. Be grateful.

Knock, knock, knocking…

Sub-X is a survivor of the radical '60s. These days he's attempting to get beyond the 'Them' and 'Us' duality of Conflict Consciousness. Trying to eliminate conflict from one's reality is a lot like dealing with alcohol. It's an on-going process. Currently, Sub-X seeks solutions and asks, "Why not more beauty, love, and joy?" We know we can do so much better. OK, so why not? Write him at johnech@mindspring.com