ON her death bed weeks before losing a bout against leukemia, my son Kukudyu told her about the premeditations of his old man to win a Nobel Prize, trying a slow lunge stab at any orb celestial from a crouch-or-crawl stance before whirling dervish leap off this garroted neck of the woods to take down boon or moon…
Did he say Nobel Prize? Likely for Sliterature or Cliterature—kapwa hiwa, sax and violins, clit ‘n slit…
No rest for such quixotic quest, Kukudyu assured his mom-in-law-to-be that his old geezer is so full of passions restless and renewed each day honing, plying his craft in a journey that matters more than destiny or destination.
What a life!
It is the struggle, not outcome nor income he grubs on in a workaday grind that can tire… and he’s one oddball who’d chew asphalt off a road to patch a flat tire and resume driving, he deadpanned.
Uh, such alien life form could be haled in irons, straitjacket, or tender embrace for an earnest chat with prospective mom-in-law, if only he could be sober… why, he has lucid and waking moments off that somnambulating trudge toward Stockholm, awards site or syndrome, whichever he likely gets to.
Small talk, a few laughs, quibbles in the looming face of death and pain don’t hurt. The faintest shine of sun in a grin of the dying steadies a grip on life’s brink.
Like neat drink, a dream is chased—liquid fire can grate at throat before settling, stoking live embers and ashes in the belly— as a lecher would after skirts… as wake of dust in the headlong run blinds the Grim Reaper keen on catching up with fleet-footed dreamer…
Mwa-ha-ha-haw: Grim Reaper bites the dust!
But runner never bothers to look back at the twist of comedy lest he turn into a pillar of insult.
For lack of appointed site or sights ahead she can bring herself to, she went.
Chemotherapy sessions and intake of medications can be bothersome for an extended vacation in a hospital suite. She won’t be bothered again.
Slaving and saving sums takes so much time… such sums give no measure of relief. It won’t buy time or soothing salve to fend off the body turning against itself, chewing it out bit by wee bit, cell by cell.
The body has spent itself.
Expenses incurred in that extended vacation can be paid for in the coin of the realm. It’s only money…
Debt be not proud.
“And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”