My Mother’s House by Pablo Vision
My mother’s house is kind of cool by my way of reckoning – loads of hippy shit everywhere -wind-chimes and scrap-metal sculpture in the garden – sometimes there’s bearded-weirdos chanting in the hot tub – or tie-dyed women making lentil soup in old tin baths. It’s more like some sort of suburban commune – a place where old freaks go to relive, as best they can, the only life they ever wanted to live. The neighbours hate it – and, of course, this is why I love it. They’ve even painted the car – I guess they were trying for something like Kesey’s bus – but all the colours got mixed up into brown sludge, and it looks like demented fanatics have made some sort of dirty protest – and maybe they have – maybe they are shitting all over the white-fence-tidy-lawn-middle-class-middle-America that they found themselves being suffocated in – like the ultimate endless bad-trip.
My father had left her for someone twenty years younger – after taking all her best years – and she found herself alone – I mean really alone – you see she’d thrown herself totally into him and her family – and found with him gone – here one day gone the next – that she had no life of her own – she didn’t even know who she was – didn’t know what to do when she woke up in the morning. She got real depressed – cried for days – just fell apart. Me and my sister rallied round – made the effort to go and see her – got her to see the Doctor and get some pills – but then she would just sit at the kitchen table for hours looking confused – not even sad – just not there if you get what I mean. Continue reading