This week, I took my dad out for breakfast for his June birthday/ Father’s Day. It was one for all-time. He took me, actually, to Don’s Diner in Marshall-Shadeland, under the old bridge that’s black and sooty, a secret haven for breakfast lovers, functional alcoholics, folks going to work, who want to eat real bread, real butter, and sit among real grimy booths, walls, stools. My dad said, they filmed two movies here. and he said, Don learned to cook in a hotel, so the story goes. I said, Hm, I’m not sure about that because hotel breakfast is usually gross. I think he learned to cook in prison. I was watching our waitress, thinking, she is an meth or crack addict. She’s fluid, she’s fast on her feet, but her eyes are dead, and her face looks frozen, immobile. It’s a wall. Waitressing here’s not a bad deal, though. She’s got serious track marks, but she’s earning her shots legally, ain't she? Don looked back away from his grill a couple times, and saw me looking around. What is it? he asked me, wearing an old-man's mask and a white apron.
I blinked, (or maybe I winked). I think I see YOU, killer. We ordered a breakfast sandwich with Mancini’s bread, with an egg and Swiss cheese, one omelette, and with one blueberry pancake. Dad shared his pancake, and his omelette with peppers and sausage, with me All the food was perfect! That’s how sausage should be, I said, Crispy on the outside, hot and peppery on the inside, never rubbery or fatty.
The food was the shit. Note to self: this secret drop of heaven in the vicinity of (drug) hell, Woods Run and Brighton.

Afterwards, when I dropped my dad off at their house, he asked, Can you come in for a few minutes?
I asked, why, thinking, oh shit, damn. Should I say, hell no!? We had a grudge with each other over all these years.
I mean, I had a grudge. But so did they. Last week, I said to myself, I don’t even care, anymore. I don’t care if they apologize. They don’t need to. I don’t need it. I’m good. It’s really water under the bridge.

But I was nervous, sensing the potential for emotional ambush. I said, it sounds serious.
Dad said, Well it is serious, but it’s a good thing. So I agreed to go in for the talk. Mom came out to the living room. We all sat down.

Dad talked. Mom kept interrupting, Can I just say one thing here? It wasn’t a confrontation about the past (1991). It wasn’t an awkward apology. It was nothing like that. It was about their house.

Dad said, be THE STATE as it may be, if you can keep us out of nursing homes, we’re leaving our house to you. You’ll own it, you’re about to own it, and you’ll care for us if we need it, and then live here. I said, Oh, God! It’s the last thing anyone wants to think about.

I don’t want to think about 10-20 years, and I might not even want to be here, when my pets die, my parents die, and friends start to die. What if even one of my sisters die? That can’t be. We haven’t lost anyone who wasn’t nearing 100 years old, so far.

Dad made a joke to tease mom about her beloved garden in the back, He said, when you live here, you can remove the deer fence, if you want to! Mom said, Oh god, please, no! I said, Mom, don’t worry. If you want, I’ll build the wall higher and thicker for you. I’ll make it like between the US and Mexico! Your raspberries, tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, everything will keep growing. I’ll get help. And I think this was how we made things right forever.

My dad got teary when he said, I hope we’ve done enough for you. He said, Your sisters all have houses and partners. They’re smart. They’ll be okay. At least this way, you don’t have to worry about where you’ll live. I won’t get homeless, I said.

It did help, it did provide peace, it DOES, even though I’m not sure if I can trust that things will work out right, like the vultures could sweep in and take it away.

It makes it better, more imaginable, if then, I’ll live in my parents’ house, like I imagined. I might have to nurse one of them first, and I do have skills. So that’s what I kind of expected or imagined.

I said to them, I made so many impractical, dreamy choices. I never should’ve left home. I never should’ve went to Smith. I should’ve lived at home and joined a band. OMG IF ONLY I DID THAT. It’s actually a viable alternate ending or path.
I’ll take it next time, if given that choice. Not leave my people. Stay home.
(even now, I know I can’t)

About Smith, mom and dad said, But we never could’ve talked you out of it. Me: I know, I’m not blaming you. It’s just so obvious how my choices were always most likely to create romance and accrue all kinds of debt.

Mom said, I think the same thing for us, with my choices. What if I had stayed a nurse, not gone to graduate school? The schools are goddamn vultures, aren't they?

But we learned stuff. We walked a road. We went somewhere and came back. One never regrets learning.

If you have a lot of money and a child with “low-functioning Autism then you can buy care for them in your own home (most people cannot)

You can hire someone like me with graduate degrees to sing nursery rhymes, watch TV on repeat, play with their ipad, practice reading, counting, months, days, and dates, and feed by hand like a baby, and wipe off every little drip.

Your child’s personal teacher can wash them, scrub their butt, scrub their hair, towel them dry, dress them (nicely) and then take a walk with them, or use the exercise equipment in the basement together, tour the house together, complete rituals, and the teacher won’t mind the stimming, knowing that it helps to manage stress, among other things we don’t understand

If you cannot afford this, and cannot care for this person who is like a baby in a big man or woman body, then they’ll probably have to go live at an orphanage. If you don’t get some full time care one way or the other, the kid will probably end up in the hospital anyway, or you will, or the younger sibling, or the pet, because for at least 2 decades they will be like a tornado until they “figure out” the medications, which are so many bandaids, with so many side effects, but it’s that, or — let them destroy yourself and knock you over the head with a frying pan one day for no reason when you’re distracted by something. If you see it coming, and watch the kid’s face, how much he enjoys the sound of metal meeting skull, then you might hire help faster, or drive to the orphanage faster. They’re never going to sleep. They’re never going to chill out. No amount of exercise burns it off. They’re in the wrong world, or wrong timeline, and they know it.

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay, too. I mean the creation or non-creation of music or isn’t something one should get hung up on. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay to. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

Last night a couple folks came over, and we grilled on our ghetto balcony, for the first time. I did it to make Hopey happy, and even ate a hamburger. Hopey is my flatmate for a long time.
Somehow we made it work. Partly by being willing to let each other pursue our own addictions and happiness. For me, drinking, smoking, and writing shit online. For her, watching tik-tok, eating processed food, and drinking fountains of mountains of Mountain Dew. She walks my dog sometimes so I do (all) the cleaning for us. Sometimes she disgusts me by how much red meat, bacon, fat she consumes, and yet, I ate one of the burgers she made last night. I also ate my chicken, and drank 3-4 chocolate beers. Then I threw up, just kidding, I didn’t. I put a pillow over my head to drown out the fireworks and passed out at 9 PM. Hopey and her friends stayed up to “watch the fireworks” out the window, which is so dirty you can barely even see the neighborhood outside of it. But I don’t argue with everything. This morning, she said, We were able to hear the fireworks, but not really see them. like, no shit, Sherlock. you do the craziest things.

Would I know Hopey at all if we didn’t live together? No. Even if we worked at the same job (which, we do, as caretakers), I wouldn’t hang around her because she’s loud and never stops talking.

I got a minute or two to write, so I’m'a do it. “Fight the real power,” said Sinead O’Conner, glowing
in the 90’s, on TV. Yes, she said it to them, the Roman Catholic Church, allied with the actions of actors for capital and terror. Ok, girl, I will.

I took a nap yesterday and dreamed that I saw this little child with her head blown backwards, like back at a 90 degree angle, from a bomb or grenade or a hard fling or fall. She was cracked as an egg. I rushed to her. I thought, I KNOW THEY SAW, AND I KNOW THEY SAY DON’T MOVE THE BODY, THE SPINE MIGHT BE BROKEN But I tried to lift her head anyway for some dignity. It felt like breaking a twig, breaking small bones, how they snapped as I lifted her head back to 0 degrees, and I thought, with mild to medium remorse, Goddammit they were right about that. But she’s probably dead, anyway.

Juniper is 20 years old, and she looks like a regular Nancy. She looks composed thoughtful, and makes some appropriate comments while sitting in her swing. She might say, I don’t have to talk to you. She’ll say, “PU, what stinks, did you fart?” She’ll say hi to people by name. When she stands up to change locations (not a preferred moment), she twirls a full, slow 360 degrees for every other step. She wears a pull-up. She looks like a “young maid,” with two dark braids and a freckled nose, eyes that blink and give the illusion of involvement.

Last week, when I had to help her move into the kitchen because a fellow resident was starting to smash and punch and throw and break things, there was no skipping the twirls, but I tried to rush them, and cover for her. We sat in the kitchen together for 10 minutes, talking. I made the mistake of engaging with her request to watch Annie, which for me, and most people, would mean, “soon” or “sometime,” but for her meant, right now. So she said Annie about 300 times at the end, as I started to get tired with it and need to switch or simply going into a spaced out zone. It became intolerable, Annie Annie Annie Clifford (the Big Red Dog?) Vigorous head nodding, Annie Annie Annie watch Annie? But for a while we just talked, saying hi, and talking about the imaginary smell.

Her: it stinks, did you fart? Me: PU, what’s that smell? Her: What’s that smell? It smells like fruit. Me: Did you fart? PU, it stinks. Her: What’s that smell? Me: It smells like hamburgers Her: It smells like hamburgers *smiles

Upstairs: crash bang, crash bang

Her: damn Me: damn Her: What time is it? Me: It’s almost time Her: It’s almost time. What time is it? Me: It’s 4:30. Her: It’s almost time.

*crash bang

Her: are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time Her: What’s that smell? PU did you fart? Me: What time is it? Her: What time is it? It’s almost time. Me: Are you hungry? What time is it? Her: Did you fart? It smells like fruit Me: It smells like fruit Her: Are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time

Her: watch Annie? and that’s where I lost control of the thread, but the other kid became calm enough to come to dinner, and so that’s what we did next.

“I don’t have to talk to you.” She says that because like everything else she says, someone in her life said it A LOT. They mimic and communicate more tangentially than Jesus with his little parables. Follow the steps of the script to something concrete, as a general rule.

Last night when I got to Will’s house (lives in a small mansion on rich side of city limits), his sister and mom was fawning over him, trying to help him calm down. They said he wasn’t happy with anything and couldn’t choose anything. I suggested “go sit in bed, watch TV,” because it’s the baseline place to start. His main perseveration was going to the bathroom and then changing his mind, leading his caretaker in maddening circles.

I have a similar IBS situation as he does, for different reasons, but I know a bloated belly when I see one (usually just looking down at my feet), so I dug my fingers into the belly at different point like how my old chiropractor and his assistant did to me. Finding the valve, flexing it open, hearing the gurgle of moving fluid. He said, :wow and whoa. Then we stood up to sing and dance to “happy and you know it,” then I suggested we use the basement (it’s finished) bathroom just to see if a location change would help things move, and it worked.

Not a great poop, still loose and appearance of heat *see Chinese Traditional Medicine, but at least he got some out. I hate wiping up a diarrhea butt, but a caretakers gotta do it. I helped him take a bath later, and I make sure he’s clean and once out of the bath, dry. I feel like I give him the best cleaning of his caretakers. He looks sad when I wash his hair because some water always drops into his face or eyes, but other than that, he doesn’t fight the bath, or any of it. He wants to be clean. He just cannot get his hands to do the hand things necessary, that connection is severed. Hands are for flapping. But my hands are for working, and cleaning.

I think the most important thing I do though is function as a verbal filter, where I like translate every event into a 2-3 word descriptive phrase, that we repeat and make into songs.

I look forward to working with Juniper again, because she’s funny, and her scripts are fire.

To James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.

For James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.