ramblings

I drove to see the folks today. It felt psychologically like Frodo's trip to the volcano to toss in the ring. I love my folks and I hate what happened under their care, both. But they're eighty plus now, and what happened is over thirty years ago. Time for an old lady to get over what a really old man and his old wife did to her. Don't ya think? But, I wonder, what does it mean to "get over"?

I know that my dad raped me. I know that on some level my mom knew what happened, even though I also believe her when she says that she didn't Know. She knows now, and believes me, but thinks that staying with dad will bring him to Christ. Maybe "thinks" is too strong a word for my mom.

You see, my folks are highly polished nice people. They are pleasant to be around, even when they are arguing with each other (constantly). They work hard at being easy to get along with. It's the sheen of them that is so disconcerting to me. Doesn't anyone know it's a lie except me?

For me, to get over it all means that I am able to hold the shiny people and the scratched up truth in my mind together. To get over it means I am able to believe that really nice people do some very f****ed up things. How do I wrap my mind around that?!

I guess I need cognitive stretches to get there, to get to peace with the what is and what was in my life, both.

So, today I enjoyed the folks. I stayed safely numb for most of the time, and so it was cozy in my little private cocoon. It gave me a story idea.

When will I be big enough to contain the opposites without them going rounds inside of me?

Rocks

Do rocks bathe in the sun? Stretching and expanding with the heat, envying those who get splashed (and battered) by cooling waters? Storing the sun's warmth to ward off night's cold silvers?

Do rocks bathe in the sun? Tickled by insects, crabs, and animals like people walking across, aching where plants split them?

Do rocks need the sun? To fuel the movement of water and air that carve them, to eventually get to move themselves if only slowly, like glaciers. Do rocks know what to do, or worry about what's next?

Do rocks celebrate being chosen for walls, gathered from their field ramblings to join in a semblance of their original forming? Or is cement like a prison for a rock? Do rocks volunteer, or try to make themselves heavier when people pick them to move around? Is it an honor to be called stone? Do rocks fear magma and jackhammers?

Are underwater rocks a different creature from under air rocks like they are from space rocks? Do rocks wish that they could float or fly? Is being thrown addictive and what every rock hopes for when it gets old and small enough? Are rocks that skip on water the magical ones, the shamans of the mineral world?

Do they think that balancing is invigorating? Do rocks feel the inevitability of down?