This chapter where he father beats him and he thinks about his red roses…Ham on Rye, lots of beating people up. I’m feeling for Bukowski here — so angry. You know, I thought about Dr. J, where she might have come from just taking what she said about being beaten at two…sent away.
People do get beaten up.
At two?
I can understand why he dislikes his parents, taking in what’s happening around him.
I had to laugh…I don’t know what Bukowski would have said to me about feeling time bend and using this experience to project myself to a future point, probable, “no matter how improbable,” I understood, “it can exist.”
I created that moment —
“I am no longer in this.”
Meditated on it, navigated to that point.
My father and I existed on negotiation ground — sure, I was sharp, but all things considered. We tipped over — I might have called his religionism “fake.”
“You are spiritually empty.”
First, I became aware that I was in this situation.
I got kicked underneath the table — no.
Why am I here?
Or, he shoved with his shoe.
Why am I on the ground?
I remember yelling at him in the living room — I don’t know what we fought about. I think it was the same evening. He pushed me to the ground. He pushed me hard. No, I didn’t. Our neighbors slipped a note underneath our door — next time, they’re calling the cops. His response to this note…my growing awareness…I had to do something.
I had the thought later — didn’t you…why didn’t you talk to your father? I pictured Bukowski coming to the table after this scene. “Hey guys, thought about it…”
I got in alignment with God even, first. Would any God in any belief system, truly speaking, condone this behavior? Is it ever right to hit a kid? Okay, quick reflection — was Dr. J asking for it? Dicey. I felt vertically upheld. I meditated on that point,“no longer in this.” I started getting information once I could basically feel that certitude.
“Everything exists in relationship.”
I took that thought. I dealt with it. Wrestled with it. What this was, where it came from, even karma. Who did what, why, who was at fault. The larger bonds involved, my struggle, I guess. Something was wrong with him. Had no form for it.
Thinking about Bukowski — his whole universe was sick, no? His school, these parents, and kids. Kids just get blamed. Not that uncommon. Well, because they grew up also like this? Doesn’t seem to be a totally conscious world. They might know what they’re doing…
I detached myself from this relationship, emotionally, even. No ties. Had to remove myself.
“You have to induce a fight consciously,” I looked up.
That made me nervous.
Why?
Oh, well, no one would want to hit a child, no? Not consciously. Why would you want to hit a child? Why would anyone want to do that? People have their limits — he was sick, I was…harsh? None of that. These ties. Not the most straightforward exercise. Nothing. No one wants to do this…come on.
Finally, I got an image of him switching states as if to communicate “you see when he switches states?” Break him there.
Every probable scenario went through my head — I imagined how he could react, where in the house I might be, how I would respond. Patient, thorough, Maria Mocerino. Lethal. Like you think you know me mother fucker. I went to death even. I mean, what was this? Fine. In that case, I ain’t holding back. I don’t give a shit who you are. You understand.
It wasn’t hard to induce this fight, eating a delightful white chocolate cake in Istanbul with pistachios and white chocolate shavings…
Once I felt I had found the exit, resolved, totally neutral, I cracked open this conscious fight on my end. Wasn’t hard. Didn’t have to do much. Which, um, step by step, I’m telling this story from another place since he was sick, no? Obvious. I remember it began upstairs. How we got downstairs…I don’t know. Did he run down the steps after me? I doubt we stood side by side and casually continued this conversation. A fight. About what? I don’t know. Didn’t matter. It felt, truly speaking, like being in another reality. I held my verticality. I was out already. No fear. No doubt. Nothing.
I squinted visibly…amazed that it seemed to be working. I just poked at it. I didn’t even say anything after a little poke. The next thing I remember I backed up…I’m backing up…down the hall…our townhouse had a in-set living room with a railing sponged with gold and white…the carpet was pink because Dr. J literally changed the house from carpet to curtain so we had to undo all of this and he picked out “treasure chest” and pink, well, we got pink instead hence my pink room with the pink blinds and pink carpet — goddamn pink. Nothing wrong with pink. I just think it’s funny that my little mastermind or whatever came from a pink box. Yes, pink.
“I will navigate to this point in my mind…I am no longer in this…and then I got information…”
I cannot speak for anyone but myself — I don’t know what would have happened or what this process would have even looked like for someone else. Would Bukowski’s mother hit him over the head? Fathers are right. She might have had a total meltdown. I can only speak from the situation I was in.
I got a visual as he advanced, as he tipped, about to switch states. I kept backing up…into the dining room now on fake peach tiles floors, a white dining table…I saw a gear, a turning gear, turning, that I stepped through, out of, and he switched states, came for me. I just lifted my arm. It threw him. What’s this arm…? Was it the intention? Almost feeling my arm being lifted — a stop. “I don’t want to do this,” delivered with no emotion but fierce, neutral truth. I pointed. Do you want to do this? I meant it. This was a human-to-human exchange. This has gone far enough in my opinion. This isn’t who we are. If he touched me again, I held my point, I’m out the door — that door.
In the words of Sonya — “la force d’esprit,” she said.
“PAF!”
Russian, she drew the vertical line down her body with a higher, her finger, alignment.
She pointed — exactly.
I plugged into la force d’esprit. She taught her sons about la force d’esprit.
I had no emotion, she kept drawing the vertical line, no attachment, nothing. Exactly.
I waited— how are you going to respond? I looked at him, transparently. I held this. Like am I going to have to fight back? Are you coming after me? He looked me up and down and went away.
That was that.
May we negotiated again. I don’t remember order that much. But I took care of that. It might have changed how I approached him. Twelve/thirteen — jam-packed. He denied my period. The existence of my period which put us on negotiation ground. Now there, my tolerance tested, offended. He refused to drive me to the drug store. Okay? “It’s a BIOLOGICAL function,” seething at him. Pinching my Italian FINGERS, “it’s a BIOLOGICAL FUNCTION!” Maybe that was the last time, maybe all of this happened around the same time. I might have had my own limits, you understand, jumping over the banister, bouncing off the couch. “CATHOLIC!”
Just because he said he wouldn’t drive me to the goddamn drug store. I had to convince him. We just didn’t have the most pleasant time, most of the time, I suppose I’ll write a nice essay about nights in Los Angeles…quiet nights…in the Cutlass…listening to love songs on the coast. For sure, there’s range as there tends to be. Acting class. I finished around ten, sometimes. Later.
My old man, I can say that. Not a violent type? Someone who – again, he was “a nice guy.” But then, I don’t know what to say about what happened. I found out that he almost beat a guy to death for calling him a ginny in World War II. He got demoted into the submarines. Ya know? I find that — oh, should I be like “other people?” An exaggeration? One shouldn’t exaggerate about that. He was penalized. Wouldn’t have ever thought it — and, and, and. I spent four years on Miracle Mile in this Society of Spectacle — yes, that could be the title. Meets the Scarlett Letters. This farce. Then, he gets sick. Doesn’t tell anyone.
I don’t remember if I staged a clown act, if that’s what this was, to leave church after this.
In The Oldest Storyteller universe — I went through the decisions I made as a kid. In general. I became conscious of that early decision-making — seemed to be part of the healing journey.
I investigated this Miracle Mile situation, them, for four years. The Catholic Church the final straw. I expanded my investigation. Of course I did. When I saw homosexuality, finally, in my theology textbook, I felt an instantaneous rage. So now, this vocab word, in thinking about, I don’t know, people — what’s criminal about sex? That’s the word. Damnable. Look, I mean, Dr. J’s sexual issues: blatant. I had heard other stories about repression so someone that extreme aside, abuse in the church a major problem, me getting red roses, speaking of red roses, from my superior for I was an assistant teacher at ten, eleven, studying this construct from within, all angles. To condemn people for this reason — doesn’t make sense. This is a human problem.
Pushing open our black gate, last chance, last chance for my father. Putting away his golf clubs in the trunk, I asked him outright how he would feel if I were to date a woman? Now, this time, I snapped. Partially because he didn’t know what to do with that question. Answer the question. “What wrong with it?” I got up in his face. “Wrong?” The question is WRONG. “Well, sex,” I mean, he tried, “is supposed to be between a man and a woman.” Condemning someone for this reason. You’re killing people, sending them to eternal damnation? What the hell is this? Innocent people. It terrified me.
I launched some names. Sinner talk — at him. A chase around the Cutlass.
How can you believe? Do you believe?
Of course, he didn’t seem like he would disown him but I had no tolerance. None. I didn’t understand.
Finally, based on this conversation, it disheartened me, so I wondered — since I was on the subject coming into my teenage years — what about a Black man? I didn’t know what to do with these identifiers either. I came down him hard. I got another visual of columns — these were bigger societal ideas and they existed in him, they existed in me, and I didn’t want any part in this.
Would you have a problem with this? Just wondering…you know?
I doubt he would have, you know, regardless, actually, I don’t know.
I broke him down. Answer the question.
This time had many layers, speaking of The Oldest Storyteller.
I had no tolerance and racism is real.
No, he would have no problem with it, of course not, he might have even started crying, I might have been crying, in that, I was enraged at this point in my development.
“I just think it’s easier to stick to your own kind…
“Mankind.”
Mankind.
Do you mean culturally? Like if a Spaniard asked me out — no, I cannot, this will be too tough. A Russian — no no. We come from different worlds. I don’t know how he meant that. But mankind. That’s what I mean. Putting stupid graphs in my theology book about other religions being further away from God, all this, I was leaving the church. To me, this was his final chance. Could I fight the church? Not really. I wish I knew he was sick which I did but didn’t and it hadn’t congealed yet.
I had trained him not to wake me up.
He would burst into my room in an anxious state — get up get up get up get up Maria, get up.
That was done.
I had a hard time with this one.
I rejected it. I couldn’t handle the in-human mixed-up but we’re all great approach. We are on Planet Earth. I mean, what can I say? Was I wrong? Was I wrong to reject this? Was I supposed to show him sympathy? Maybe now — what? I would sit down and discuss all this with him?
These are larger belief systems. This world has a long history.
I had to beat the clock. He would never miss church. I got up, listened to him get ready, stood on the other side of the bed. I just had to wait. I could present a calm argument, ready to go, but this is religion. I didn’t trust that…people kill over religion. This is what I mean. I predicted his movements.
He went downstairs. Prepared his breakfast. He started calling me, eventually. I did not respond. His tone changed to “of course, I slept in.” He called my name at the bottom of the stairs. Came up the stairs…barged into my room…got thrown. I was just standing there very calmly, fists at my sides.
I am not going to church anymore, I said.
What?
I am not going.
I cannot believe in something just because you do.
Who wouldn’t understand that?
It escalated quickly.
I had to find my own spiritual path.
That did it.
He came for me around the bed as I had predicted. Socks over the pink and teal Pollock comforter — I flew — did not hesitate — hung a sharp right into the only room with a lock: his. He wanted me to open the door. I yelled, snapped…didn’t understand. There were some ideas in this world that I wanted nothing to do with.
“Down the boulevard of bottlebrush trees…the Oldest Storyteller came walking on green grass….”
“Outside already?”
My child psychologist’s Volvo stationed outside —
That’s where I reopened this age.
He held up the sky like a thought, a teardrop for a lamp above him. He always had a way of bringing space to a point, Death. He got into the Volvo. He, she, they. I had never gone through this scene. I couldn’t do it then and now. I held back. One of those. I typed…”there were probably many…”
“REASONS?”
Reasons why she came over that day.
But how do I know I’m telling the truth? How do I know this is true? The liar thing. A pathological liar. That would be the term.
Well, you went through it, no?
If I brought a truth up to the surface, it didn’t make it untrue.
I had to just get in.
If I invented, it didn’t make it untrue.
I just had to get in.
These are fears.
What the truth is…on this ride…in this Volvo.
I went on this ride.
Ended up being a good scene so yes I invented a little or brought the drama to the surface — a not-so-composed child psychologist — all good, understandable, for another time. Who knows? Maybe she wasn’t that composed though she always treated me with respect.
A gifted child psychologist — an idea being born — sure.
I broke down this lunch later. The basic gist — I got.
Eataly’s Little Kitchen.
I got out of this one.
Our conversation was transparent.
I didn’t realize it…I just went through this for the first time…maybe took it on a walk…sat down…I didn’t come from the worst circumstances…but I walked through my front door and Death came behind me fast and shut it. It hit me. I made the decision to stay. I had a rough couple of days. Over.
In an empty house filled with furniture, took time, order, no order. Didn’t matter. Unraveling this illness, a soloworld coming to an end. He wasn’t sick, what? But maybe you didn’t, he didn’t. I had to anchor myself. The papers. You took the papers. You stacked the papers — you didn’t want to forget your life. These crashes. He was sick. Then. And back then. Coming through the door to this Brazilian woman’s house…beginning to see this whole story change.
I don’t live with this…it’s just a story.
Before going into it, I dialogued with this idea. Put this in scene. The Oldest Storyteller had seen — presence, call it — it all. Every story ever told. Difference established. Could wrestle with larger issues, problems, too. Spiritual. How did I do that?
Never shared this with one person.
I had to stop — hearing myself at that age. I really wrestled with all this. “No, it wasn’t abuse, no, I stopped it…” which is why I never spoke about it. Why would I? It went on for longer than I thought it would though. That hit me. All this character did — was listen. Sometimes, when I came up with these scenes, they floored me, just that response, even if I would have done the same thing for someone else. Just shut up and listen. Didn’t interrupt me. Didn’t tell me what it was. Gave me the space. So I listened.
Changed how I went through that.
I had to take a walk, work that out. Never went through these years.
The narrative I told or the choices I made up until that point evidently…
A story could come out of it. I liked this one, a thread of wisdom through this, all this, I’m not one to indulge, for the issues involved, too. Death being there…doesn’t rattle my world, conceptually. I befriended this idea when I was a kid; I saw it as the real root in his illness — another decision I made. Trying to understand how to help even. He seemed to have such a hard time. People, sure, there are great people out there. I reached for a higher perspective…the oldest storyteller, human, possibly unifying, healing, even. It’s like a walk with God, that film, but this is a different figure. Real. It’s not that God isn’t real. But…whoosh. Even what people do in the name of God.
Death is looking you right in the eye.
Not a human character.
No agenda. You see.
Just there.
Lots of drama around the forces of nature, divine.
Oldest Storyteller.
We craft stories. True stories… she could say that in such a way.
It’s just that.
I obviously tried lots of things. I opened up a lot.
The truth…
I wanted to be here in this life. Deal with this story. Think about ends. Create the life that I wanted…so now, I’m here. Ever felt stuck in a story? Let go. What that is.
I’m just going through my childhood.
I didn’t mean to end up here but then I read a little Bukowski.
Well, this is what I did today.
He left. I watched the car drive off to church. He never brought it up. We never discussed it.
Four or five years later, he approached the railing.
“You don’t go to church anymore?”
I turned. Not for a very long time.
That’s why he sent me to Catholic schools. He wanted me to build a relationship with God not —
Right.
There’s dementia for you.
He might have just forgotten.
The thing about The Oldest Storyteller that I liked — it’s one life — in Rome. That figure being on the brink of dawn. It sits there too. The light at the end of the tunnel — early mornings. I like the intimate conversation…on the road…one life…that figure taking it in. Stories…there’s something about stories, so many, that wisdom that seems right on point. So so many. Change the narrative. The meaning, the meaning…
I went through a period when I thought about an old woman looking back on all this. Wanting that feeling of fulfillment, full. If I cleansed myself of some problematic if not un-constructive ideas — thank you. I’m glad I resolved it. Resolution — I was, I was seeking a resolution. That word.
“Time flies…” It flies in many ways.
I turned a page.
A life, it’s supposed to inspire you. Here to there…lot possible.
I ended up going down this track.
I didn’t mean to.
Thanks for reading.