It's so hot here Satan's balls are boiling. When people who don't live here say vapid shit like "Oh, it's a dry heat so really it isn't that bad at all!", I want to punch them in their fucking face. That is all.

Help Jacqui

I love you, Mom.

I was sick for awhile, now I'm better. That's not what I wanted to tell you.

I love my mother very, very much. I excuse her from not knowing about some things in the world due to her age (late 70's) and lack of education (never graduated from high school) and also the fact that she grew up very poor in a back woods Baptist family. I try to educate her as best I can because she does love to learn. Some subjects that are complex are beyond her reach, though, because she doesn't have the necessary background to understand them.

So about a month ago I was talking to her on the phone and she was very interested in why I am having to study so hard this summer for a course that doesn't start until the end of August. I explained to her about biochemistry and how the course consists of biochem, genetics and 3 very in depth sections on evolution.

She says "I kind of think evolution is a fib".

I was perplexed and thought maybe this was coming from some hold over from her religious days.

We didn't have time to get into a long conversation about it at that moment, but I filed it away in my memory to talk with her about this later.

So today I decided to share with her some information I thought she might find interesting about the evolutionary advantage of color vision, emotions, and monogamy. I thought I 'd start with the color vision and see if she wanted to learn more and go from there.

So I'm telling her about this and because she loves nature shows and animals she was very interested.

I moved on to emotions and she was right there, still all ears and saying how interesting this was.

Same for monogamy. She was really getting into learning about this.

So after awhile of dishing out the science, I decided to ask her why she thought evolution wasn't true if she found what I was saying so interesting.

She says: "Oh, I'm talking about that evolution I heard about on tv where people come back as animals after they die."

Me: "WHAT???? You mean reincarnation????"

Mom: "Oh, yeah! THAT! Evolution is fine, but I don't believe in reincarnation. I think I got confused!"

We both had a really good laugh over that. It's little moments like this, that actually happen quite often, that make talking to my mom a few times a week something I look forward to more than anything.

It may be tolerable for a period of time, it may even become comfortable due to familiarity, but it will never be beautiful.

He was an old moonshiner and cattle farmer with a bad ear, a heart that pumped too hard and a small framed body that had the swagger beat out of it from numerous kicks from his prize bull.

He loved that bull even after it kicked him in the chest and ribs and nearly killed him. He loved strange things.

He loved his sons but not his daughter. He threw a shotgun in her face and held her hostage in the bathroom in one of his rages.

He loved his liquor and tended to it faithfully; long after the judge told him that his next arrest would result in the seizure of all his property and serious prison time. He literally took things underground and continued on as if no one could touch him.

He loved his best friend, my father, and they were cut from the same cloth--rough hewn and violent, makers of their own laws. My dad has been without his best friend for a year and it has sucked a hole in his chest that's visible all the way out here in the desert.

He loved teaching people useful, handy life tips like how to hang red Christmas ornaments on the branches of marijuana plants so that when the Feds fly over they might mistake your cash crop for tomato plants.

He died on the farm where he lived most of his life. It was an accident and he went quick. Everyone said it was best that way. The corrosiveness of age was leaving his spirit to flail around in a body that couldn't do what it once did. It was either go out in a split second doing what he loved or let time take his dignity and prowess.

They said it was best this way.

He is remembered posthumously as being better than he was, kinder than he was, a lover of kids, animals, family and the land. He isn't remembered for being an illiterate, violent, sociopath who never had a shot at doing anything worthwhile or legal. It must be easier to love a good memory than a bad person; even if the memory is just a fantasy.

Mom says it still doesn't feel real. She says it's like he remains there on the farm; like he’s going to come over the edge of the hill; like he's just outside the door and is going to come home any minute now, smelling like cow dung and whiskey.

The door is closed.
The hill is empty.
My aunt still tends his farm.
He is still my favorite uncle.
I hear the family reunion wasn't as lively this year.
My dad is still trying to avoid things that remind him his best friend is gone.
My mom looks at his grave in disbelief.

I really wanted to go here this weekend to feed and play with the horses, but instead I'm at home doped up on allergy meds that are giving me strange melancholytron dreams and trying my best to keep the pain that has nestled deep inside my left ear at bay.  Yes, my throat is still a mess.  Yes, this still fucking blows.

This helps my throat.

Next weekend, horses.  Hopefully.