March 22nd, 1948—She is a mother now—my son’s wife.  She has felt life in her belly as I have.  The laughter there.  Thirty years ago I gave birth to him, my last child, and now he’s a father.  But he does not see it.  The truth in opposites, the synthesis in antithesis.  Bethany does, for she had sons, but he does not, for he had sons.  This where one parent sees truth and the other does not.  In the progeny of another gender, the gender not your own…  I have written now for years.  Years of thoughts in these journals.  Journals I know my son keeps.  Journals his wife keeps.  I have written my thoughts and feelings, my observations on events in my life, but I have come up with no answers.  No perfect ending to the story.  The story my mother started and had me end as a child.  On that hero that was an anti-hero, and the truth in it—what I’ve learned of urgency.  I have absorbed what I’ve read of others, but if this is to be my words, my story, I know what I must do to make the readers of it laugh, laugh to what I hold important in the message of it.  I must interpret the dream so that my interpretations are as theirs.  I must make my dream the same as his, my son’s—David.

She was not impressed by him as if she did not know it was her that needed to impress.  At least that’s my opinion as his mother.  I did not like what she came from, her family history.  I did not like her mother’s mother, who told not stories for me to finish.  And this not about money, but about upbringing—values that come not from either country or city.  I did not like the history in her family.  The sordid details of her grandmother and what David told me of their Bloodwood past.  What happened with her first husband and what she allowed in her adultery with my son, knowing better, even in the contrived death of Pete Southhouse for which my son took the blame, never once questioning the impulses, the seeds she planted which led to this.  And I heard about what happened to him—Francis Duvette—or Frenchie as they called him.  The distaste and ignorance of that restraining order his second wife put upon him and how his own stepsons beat him and had him jailed for carrying a concealed weapon, in trespass of his own house—what he paid for.  There is no delineating fact to describe it—that ignorance—that lack of fortitude, nobility.  The best way it can be expressed, the ignorance, their denial of it.  Their lack of respect for their betters.  Their very denial of it.  The farce that what you don’t understand is the other person’s fault, what you don’t understand about them making them no better, but in fact reasons for your disdain, your interruptions in what they try to communicate, as if their intelligence is the very lack thereof, and their culpability, their grace in their niceness to you, their deference, a weakness that gives you the upper hand—control…  This is the only way I can describe such ignorance with grace, for in paraphrasing Mark Twain you should never engage with stupidity.  You will not win.  You will only be brought down to their level and beaten by a long history of experience.

He should have never married her, or been hurt when she wanted a divorce.  The death of Richard, their firstborn, at the very hands of his brother, not really his responsibility though she made it his.  Accusing him, putting him on trial for not being there.  I am a woman so I know what a woman does when she does not want to take the blame.  The best defense always putting the other person on defense—this manipulation a woman knows very well, being the weaker sex.   It is the gift of the weak to do this, and the strong in being strong must do as they do, as the one injustice to their strength.  The age-old drama that ensues the dream, the interpretation of the dream, just as in my ending to the stories to that joker Alias, and that parade in the dream of Momus—what’s in our hearts always revealed, always a door to truth.

I know my son has a weakness for drink.  For marijuana.  He had it before he met her.  From another girl, a girl he met in Mississippi, and this she used as a doorway to his heart.  For the strong are always preyed upon until a weakness is created.  I created it in sheltering him.   In giving him a Christian upbringing.  The truth, the door to our hearts, always this antithesis that leads to a synthesis.  For if you pray and meditate on the Bible you will inevitably do what adheres not to your prayers, what’s not in your meditations.  And if you revel in your desires what naturally follow are acts that do not adhere to this evil.   This is the why of hypocrisy.  The truth in opposites.  This is why the way of sinners is flowered with acts of kindness and benevolence.  Why the righteous do unspeakable sins.  For we are a duality.  And the balance must always be kept…  And so now I pray knowing the answers to my prayers will come in what I do not pray for.  I pray for his son, the one who lives.  And in this I seek my answers, my ending to a story for which I’ve created many endings, starting as a girl with my mother and now again as an old woman.  For I know what my son, David, needs, as an answer to all the darkness that if meditates on reveals the light, the knowledge of the light he sees only a confirmation of the darkness once existing.  I pray for the completion.  The wisdom I own from having him.  I pray that he does not have another child.  But if he does, I know it will not be another son.  It will be a daughter…

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