The Hogs of Entropy 0510

eZine lover (@eZine)

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The Hogs of Entropy

 · 5 years ago

  

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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #510 
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8  
    888     888 888      888 888                "No Regrets, I Never 
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8             Asked to Be Born"  
    888     888 888      888 888    "                
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o              by Meenk 
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8               3/8/99 
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        I write this for my mother. 

        I sit here, inhaling the hot, acid smoke from my Camel, thinking 
 about the woman who gave me life.  She wasn't even a year older than I am 
 now when I became a part of her life.  Carrying me inside her womb, 
 re-shaping her life to accomodate mine.  She probably sat, staring at her 
 cigarette smoke, thinking about how she got where she was, exactly like 
 me.  We look a lot alike.  I have only seen one picture of her at this 
 age, her round belly, two-dimensional in the photograph, encompassing the 
 world as I knew it.  I would like to think that she thought fondly of me, 
 the unconditional love for a total stranger inside of her permeating her 
 thoughts.  Anticipation for the chance to form a person capable of anything 
 bringing a smile to her lips as she tenderly caressed her swollen abdomen. 
 I don't know, though.  She and I aren't close.  She probably felt a lot of 
 regret.  Thoughts like this don't occur until a certain point in your 
 life, if at all.  I would ask her, but I am not comfortable with her 
 anymore.  To me, she is a stranger.  Soon after she gave birth to me, she 
 married my father. 

        Maybe that is why I question her feelings about me before I was 
 born.  A child with a child, she suffered the pains of expelling me from 
 her body, into this world.  All I know of my early life has come from 
 stories she has told me.  The dawn of the 1980s, my mother still trying 
 to find herself, she tried to make the marriage work.  Stories of violence. 
 I don't remember.  She has hundreds of pictures of me, literally learning 
 to stand, learning to learn.  I looked happy.  There were few pictures of 
 her.  No one wants pictures of sadness and pain. 

        I just didn't know any better.  She took me away, possibly saving 
 my life.  I never got to express to her my gratitude, how thankful I was 
 for her courage.  She worked hard, caring for me the best she could with 
 hardly an example from her parents.  Teaching me many things, the best she 
 knew how.  Answering my questions to the best of her ability, faking it 
 when she couldn't, she brought me up with a lust for life.  She liked to 
 move, to experience.  Creating impressions that would not be evident for 
 over a decade she explored herself, raising questions in my developing 
 mind that I did not know how to ask, yet.  Though I wouldn't have thought 
 so at the time, in retrospect, the unconditional love was always there. 
 She faced the world alone, fighting not only for herself, but for me too. 
 There came a time when the questions I had outnumbered the answers she 
 could give.  I was finally able to put into words the concepts developing 
 in my head over the years.  What kind of morals did I want?  What kind of 
 person did I want to be?  The same questions my mother was trying to 
 answer when I came into her life.  The only difference was about 8 years. 
 I knew that I was thinking about things which I shouldn't have had to 
 worry about for a long time.  She had no answers for me and I was not 
 ready to be so independant.  I felt an incredible longing for something 
 which she couldn't provide and I hated her for it.  I wasn't yet a teen, 
 but already my life was headed in a direction her life could not 
 accomodate. 

        I left, barely speaking to her since.  I became a woman having only 
 the memories of her young, overwhelmed, yet strong and fearless progression 
 into womanhood to guide me.  With little guidance from anywhere else, I 
 learned from the firsthand experience of my mother's mistakes.  Not just 
 stories, but living through the consequences of her choices.  I held a lot 
 against her.  I blamed her for a lot of my anguish.  Now, I look in the 
 mirror and I see her eyes.  Her wisdom, the lines carved by pain, her 
 eagerness for life, and I realize that I love her too.  Unconditionally, 
 like she loves me.  I hope one day I will have the chance to thank her. 
 She gave me the tools to find myself and for that I will always be 
 thankful.  I love you, mom. 

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!      HOE #510 - WRITTEN BY: MEENK - 3/8/99 ]