I am in the age of discovery. I have discovered tranquil places after a rough few years.
For many years I have battled against drugs, bad company and self-inflicted goals. I have also battled against shitty parents and a sad childhood.
Until I met my current partner, Ms. Ace, I had never understood concepts related to love like family ties, brotherhood and mutual support.
My childhood was of “every man for himself.”
I do not remember romantic scenes of siblings holdings hands. My brother, Rabid, was a sneering bastard and we got along horribly. Fortunately I am much taller and meatier than he was -a skinny framework that also my son, Mr. Shiny, has got. Genetics.
I remember punch-ups and weird punishments by my father -a genius of inflicting pointless harm. A fascist Inquisitor with no vision.
I remember my grandmother very fondly -ironically, the mum of Mr. Fascist mentioned before. She was a larger-than-life lady. A colossal matriarch with unbound energy. In my desk there’s a photo of her in Madrid in the 1940’s, when she was in her twenties – she has a very elegant air in that photo, a la Rita Hayworth. She did give me love.
She was a nurse, a migrant, a specialist, an art connoisseur, she befriended writers and artists, she was a gas-fitter, a driver and -unconfirmed- a smuggler during the war.
She was entertaining and not-at-all strict.
I remember clearly going out with her in Madrid, now in my twenties and her a veritable grandma in her seventies, to sit in a pub and have a beer and some tapas. She did not drink much, but she loved having one beer with me every other week.
She would make a fastidious point of having me call her “Abuela” at all times, unless other people thought I was her toyboy.
She would hear me out and let me reason for myself. Others could not or would not do that.
I loved Abuela so much.
My mother Ms. Bleh could not love.
From an abusive poor country background, my mother was sent from Trujillo, a backwater country town on a treadmill of hardship, natural disasters and corruption in the Venezuelan Andes, to the capital Caracas, in search of a better life there.
Sent for a job? My mother was always prudish and self aware, so I do not think that she went to work in the entertainment industry -whatever that means.
She claimed she was a primary school teacher and there was a few black and white photos to prove it.
I remember vaguely a set of study books in her car -maybe she was trying to finish high school? Or maybe it was the mid-70s mentality of prosperity that Venezuela had back then -a place where going overseas every year was considered commonplace. Venezuelans were almost considered Europeans.
My brother Rabid was a problem. A handsome guy with great features, lighter skin, brownish hair and obvious mental problems. I do not like him at all. Ever since we were little children we had an antagonistic view of everything in the world. We fought about every resource imaginable, like a perpetual War of Warcraft, but sometimes we could team up to do horrible pranks and experiments.
We could have been great friends -he was intelligent and self-aware, nimble and elegant – there is a lot of good brands, good shoes and self-image involved. I think Rabid could have been an influencer if he had lived long enough. He could have been a “Don Francisco” for the modern age.
Rabid had a foul and very dangerous temper, in my opinion as a result of a mental condition -perhaps aggravated by lack of love. He was prone to fits. He would wet the bed once a month or so for many years after the normal transition to childhood. Mr Fascist would fly off the handle and the house would turn into a gulag.
I have a younger brother, Chunky. Him and I always had a neutral towards positive relation, but as I aged and I left Venezuela, I realised he was not able to find a way.
This is horrible to say, but I think he may not last long. He is in a very pronounced state of apathy and denial. I think that he is frustrated. I think he took a left turn somewhere, and life has been rough on him. But I am also aware that his current life is the result of his attitude and his background.
He took care of mother in her last years, when a stroke threw another miserable challenge in the life of a woman that has already had a miserable life. She did not need that new raspberry from life. I think she was a victim of unhealthy eating and lack of exercise.
She was not a good patient -she would kick and scream when Chunky would wash her or feed her. I do not know if I had been capable of doing the same. I am weak and he is strong. I admire that.
…to be continued…