|
SUDDEN LUCIDITY
Gentle rhythm under boiling heat. Slow plunging and turning with careful attention to the end
result. Donald takes a rest and closes his eyes, takes a little ride behind the shades. Ever since he could remember he had
been here. Tucked in and safe. Tilling and caring for the earth that pushed the limits of his vision.
He opened
his eyes and was slowly blinded by the flashy sunlight. Adjustment came in the usual 30 seconds it always took. That slow
30 seconds when he was rewarded with the lack of one of his senses that he took for granted. Because, Donald liked these reprieves
from all he thought he saw with his visors up. He much preferred the wonderous replays behind his closed eyes to the image
of him.
Donald had a huge fear of him. Something that bordered on panic when he chanced upon him on the big farm.
You see, Donald knew that he knew what he had done. He was always reminding Donald about it and extorting rewards for his
continued silence. He was actually the only one left alive from the days with the family. Of course, Donald remembered the
family so well. Mama, with her crazy tangles of black, stringy hair. The way she always smelled like grease and apples.
She used to tell him she knew she shouldn't have consented to a male child but felt that with him, she had had no choice.
Donald had just come out one day while she was going to the bathroom. Hunched in for the long haul and reviewing the latest
Farmer's Almanac, she had shocked herself over the weather predictions section by crying.
She was confused, she'd
told Donald later, because she didn't really feel sad. Why was she crying? Then, she told him, she realized that she was hurting.
This simple cow had given birth to him but hadn't even realized it. She looked back into the toilet half expecting to see
a long, wide shit with horns or scales or something. But, no such relief in store.
Inside of the bowl was the half-choking
naked form of her new baby boy. Still clinging to her by his life-line. Objecting to his watery birth. Clucking and making
odd noises. Mama had decided to call him Donald right on the spot. She rudely yanked up Donald to her and carried him to the
car. She drove herself right to the hospital 50 miles away with Donald in the passenger seat.
Papa had been a different
story. He had hugged Donald to him and just as fast put him sailing vertical into the air. With great joy, he'd caught his
new field worker in both hands. Many more trials were in store with Papa. Donald just had to grow a bit and be patient.
Their only baby, Donald had never heard of the word child and so wouldn't understand the concept of childhood anyway.
If he had any worries about that, he sweated them out year after year under lazy Papa's eye. Lazy and fat Papa.
Papa
picking his teeth of fresh biscuits and butter. Roasted chicken clinging to his lips and grease caught in the lines under
his cheeks seeking his chin. Papa coming up behind him usually. Usually to goose him. Smack the back of his head hard in the
heat. It made Donald dizzy. A few times, he fell down and Papa would be upon him screaming at him that he was "lazy",
"no-good", and "could be replaced".
Being replaced scared Donald. It was something he really
understood. He often replaced Mama and Papa in his little times to himself. He imagined them replaced by himself. He would
run the farm without their help. Alone, he could do so much more.
That's when he decided--over and over--after the
screams and insults of Papa and the indifference from Mama that he would have the farm. He would do it all alone. He saw rows
and rows of fresh vegetables for himself, the cattle, the one good horse, the 6 chickens and him. He was always there in the
back of Donald's mind. Always at the end of Donald's lists. Yes, he was there--but only barely. Donald could almost forget
him. But the chickens would remind him and the mind-game would have to be forgotten--as he was confronted with the awesome
reality of the family rooster.
He was the proudest and most dangerous mind on the farm and Donald knew it. He was
wily and came upon you from behind just like Papa was apt to do. When you least expected it. Always in the heat of the day
when horizons melted and confusion began. It was usually when Donald had just closed his eyes seeking comfort in the visions
he had of his future.
As Donald planned the best ways to dispose of Mama and Papa, as he planned what to do with
their rooms, etc.; the family rooster would sneak up on him and yell, "Get back to work", "Lazy son-of-a-bitch!",
"What do you think this is?" "A picnic?!!" Donald would whirl around and follow the voice with his blind
melon as the family rooster continued to bellow obscenities and commands at him.
A few times, back when it took
Donald more than 30 seconds to adjust to the sudden light and reality, the family rooster would leap onto his head and start
digging his filthy spurs into Donald's head. Dirty, shit-streaked spurs. The idea of the family rooster's taint being plunged
into Donald's head--possibly destroying his plans for the future--made Donald leap and shout like a madman.
Eventually,
it would occur to him to break through his loathsome fear...as gigantic as that fear was...to remove the family rooster and
his filthy spurs from his throbbing head. Touching the family rooster though, was the main problem. His taint made Donald
nauseous, but the idea of touching him to remove him made Donald fairly ill. In his approach to physical contact, Donald would
feel a sensation like rushing air being forced around him. Bees swarming him--ants crawling the length of his body. He was
revolted.
Necessity would always win though. There were things to do after all. The family rooster would go sailing
through the air. He would always come back to Donald immediately. Threatening to spill his guts about Donald's plans. You
see, in the time he spent in his new perch atop Donald's head, spurs dug in, the family rooster and Donald shared something
akin to a mind-meld. Each took away something new. The difference was that Donald adopted more and more fear and loathing
of the family rooster at these times and the family rooster adopted more and more of the power that Donald craved over himself
and his situation.
The family rooster was addicted. He couldn't get enough of Donald and his painful fantasies.
His brilliant plans for the future surprised even the family rooster in their wanton abandon to familial bloodlust. Donald
planned to kill Mama first. He would let her make a good meal for himself and Papa. They would all enjoy the last supper together.
After dinner, like every night, Papa would complain about the quality of the meal whilst licking his fingers. Mama
would excuse herself and head to the sanctity of the basement bedroom she had shared with no one for 24 years. There, she
would hum something to herself and read romance novels. Letting her sweaty, white meat spread across the red chenille bedspread.
Blocking out anything that wasn't romantic.
Like the cries of her only son being raped by her husband upstairs.
Grunts and screams. Furniture breaking and Donald's head being slammed, inevitably, into the makeshift head-lock of the sofa
cushions. Meeting the crease of the sofa with a watering mouth and a blank stare. There, Donald endured his punishment for
the last time. He so wanted the illusion to be complete that even this had to be endured.
Finally, it ended. Papa
climbed off his son's sweaty back. Yelled at him to "Go disappear outside and finish the chores" "I have business
to attend to in here, Donald" "Make yourself scarce". Donald dragged himself out of the conspiring couch's
grasp and clenched his ass-cheeks together. This produced a raging pain in his rectum; but, he knew that he would heal back
and that this was the last time trip to the toilet to shit out his father's sperm.
He actually smiled at his Papa
then. Right before pushing the screen door open to go outside. In the barn, near the chicken coop, he'd been attending to
the family axe for all of this time. He had carved bizarre pictures and inscriptions into the handle that he didn't always
understand. But, the gleaming axe-head was something that Donald understood only too well.
It was the truth and
honest part of his times to himself. He no longer was blinded by the sun when he opened his eyes after his little break times.
It was only the head of the axe that Donald saw now--glowing brilliantly. The inscriptions would dance and writhe around the
handle and beg him to do what he should.
Donald knew that the family rooster knew the plan. He could feel his pull
on him as he approached the barn by the coop. Donald had already thought of this though. He carried the usual bribe with him
in his pocket. Corn, millet and some beef fat. The beef fat had been an inspiration weeks earlier as he'd found how he planned
to dispose of his Mama and Papa. The family rooster had been too blind in his delight with this new treat to question it.
As Donald drew nearer to the barn and the beckoning axe, the family rooster emerged sleepily, but with hunger in
his eyes, from the coop. He knew something was up but he'd been coerced into more and more silence by this farm boy. Donald
threw him the bribe and retrieved the axe.
First he dispatched Mama. She was as unaware of him as ever, as at birth,
and didn't seem to notice her curtain call until Donald had drawn the curtain and plunged his only prop in this play right
into the middle of her meaty head. A simple little ditty died with her--in her humming throat. She had been humming, "...this
little light of mine.." and as she faded her grateful eyes remained fixed on Donald until she completely went away.
Papa was next. Papa was last. Just Papa left. Donald hesitated. Mama had been so grateful. So easy. How would it
be with Papa? The axe spoke up then. The axe told him everything to do. Afterwards, as Donald removed the pieces of his Papa--except
his offending member (that he left where it was)--he came back to himself.
Just in time to drop the talking axe
and haul his Papa's remains out to the coop. His Mama was difficult to move about but once outside, he'd placed her on the
old Ford tractor's homemade trailer and moved her out to the coop with the rest of Papa.
That same year, Donald
sold the cattle, the horse and those 6 chickens. No one wanted the family rooster. Everyone who came with interest in him
left shaking their heads. Donald knew that it was because the family rooster was so bad that no one would ever want him. People
just knew these things, he reckoned.
He didn't realize that the family rooster was covered in blood and that Donald
himself babbled about the family rooster. Stuff about his shitty spurs digging into his brain. Stuff about needing to put
an end to the family rooster.
He knows too much, Donald would giggle nervously. Once everyone left, Donald approached
the family rooster--one last time. He'd put on a special record of his Mama's for the occasion. Here is what I saw coming
up the lane towards the house:
I see him as the piano plays
Donald, that's him, stares at
The family
rooster's face
Ringing black with the color of wheat
His red comb sticks up with blood
A triumphant display
of easy association
Truly an apt name, cock
Donald places his wet mouth over
Its head. A shudder splits his
reaction
The convulsion, an apt appraisal
Of the task ahead of him.
A scream of winks and a clicking of
Furious
eyelids welcomes the
Damp heat of Donald's mouth
Memories of hot days on the farm
Fill both heads now
As
Donald pictures plucking
Concentration and purpose fill up
His mind and the farm is left
In dust and folds
of cramped flesh
Suddenly, all is dark. The red
Comb no longer lays claim to color
No more dilation in fields
of gold
Donald's heat replaces the sun
His mouth and it's head have become
One.
By Tonya Judy
my diary from maine
|
