Thursday, September 12, 2013

Martini's in the morning.

Top of the morning gents,

Just the other day I ran into my old neighbor from my childhood way out in rural Washington on the mud farm. Nice old guy, name's Art Waite.

Sure was good to see him, he was my regular customer at the old YMCA where for my whole life I swam, coached, taught and lifeguarded. Shit I'm still the fastest floating ghost in that old pool: since 1964. Believe it. I'll be in the water from goat barn infancy till dirt dick: backyard placenta bucket to rendition soviet. Old man Art Waite showed up every fucking morning at the Y for the early adult swim I lifeguarded, said it cleared his daily hangovers and nigarette lungs.

Funny, I still swim, run and power-walk to clear my daily hangovers too.

On one quiet early morning swim, old Art Waite was the only swimmer. He stopped at the end of the pool, then sure looked at me, then asked if I was doing well. Then he looked real hard at me again and said something so fucking weird: "You are one tough kid, son."

I shrugged and told that I swim hours a day and I wasn't any tougher than any of my Hitler Youth swim mates.

He chuckled and said, "Son I watched you grow up and I ain't talking about swimming." "Son, I watched you take some mighty hard whippings."

"Yer folks used to get really piped up and beat hell outa you kids." "I swear you and Cully and yer sisters are the toughest kids when it comes to taking a beating." "Those scars aren't from farming son, they're from broken bones and skin."

My head started spinning and I got dizzy, sick and real mean. He was my neighbor for decades way out in rural Washington, but I can't ever recall being hurt. Or whoever Cully was.

Poor old guy must've been senile and mistaken me for someone else. I'm just mean and cruel. And REAL strong. I fight all the time, I got lots of guns and Sara went to lots of different schools too. But zero memory of ever being abused like that.

My music teacher was Mr. Bean and real nice guy. Seemed to go out of his way to keep the Ewing kids in his orchestra. He tutored us, gave us private lessons and even drove us to orchestra rehearsals at the Everett, Edmonds or Seattle Symphony Orchestras. Besides swim coaches, I had orchestra teachers and conductors as surrogate fathers too. Never figured out why I was adopted by so many nice and kind sober people. Years later at my graduation I asked about his caring for us and he confided that he'd popped by the mud farm on numerous times to drop off instruments or sheet music and always seen my dad drunk and slapping and punching the hell outa mom and us kids. I whispered to him, "You don't know my mom, she fucking deserved it."

As a kid I remember my dad being gone for days and weeks, then suddenly appearing across the street passed out in his beater International Crew-Cab Pickup. Whenever we seen the old guy passed out across the street along the school playfield, my older sisters Thea and Moira would squeeze my hand real tight and trot me across the street and directly to the school property. My older sisters whispered, "We're safe on school grounds." Mean alcoholics never understood why kindergarten can be so fucking deadly for flogged toddler Finns.

I do remember being red-faced and ashamed in third grade when Al Starkenburg went to the front of the class for show and tell to share news, thoughts and local interest activities. He simply said, "I watched Karl's mom and dad fighting in their front yard. In their underware." Yup, that's perty funny. My teacher, Mrs. Kravik was also our neighbor too. She repeatedly lectured me aloud in class to "tell your father it's not appropriate for him to sleep off his drunks on school property." I guess my dad also felt safe on school grounds.

If my dad was still sleeping in his International Harvester Truck after school got out, Mrs. Kravik would hold my hand and walk me passed that evil stinking truck and up to our porch. The very next year I was transferred from Maplewood Elementary to Chase Lake. With every new school, symphony, swim team, hospital and police department, my father was no longer a mean alcoholic.

In previous postings I confided with ye soldiers that I was in behavioral therapy fer fucking years, but remember Dr. Marylin Grey? She was my last and final clinician and therapist of the Ph.D. kind: real smart shrink. Scary smart. Our meetings were always on her turf, in her office at the District Office cuz she knew all about me and pim and the pipebomb stunt. Ya see, she had my juvenile records on the desk, pim's too.

After our acquaintance and subsequent decade friendship, she did some digging in the achived files from my K-12 school years just across the hallway. I have some old paper files at Edmonds School Dist. #15 that reveal reports from teachers, coaches and conductors of abuse occurring on some mudfarm and these children showed evidence of physical abuse from some seriously mentally deficient alcoholics. I sure can't recall any of that or why I got odd lines and marks on my abdomen, cranium and goat bag, but I sure remember getting hurt swimming in sewer ponds and sliding down gravel hillsides involving numerous equestrian accidents and high speed go cart inversions. Dr. Marylin Grey suggests the contrary. My injuries skeletal, dental and genital were from violent beatings from my alcoholic parental pedophiles. Odd, I never could have kids due to disease and trauma, but that's not how I remember things. Besides, all mud farmer kids have cracked teeth and broken eardrums. She also speculated the primary cause of amnesiac blocking is due to chronic alcohol and drug abuse. Green beer and green toke ain't chronic. Neither is my poor behavioral control.

My grandfather passed away a few years back: at over fucking hunnert years old. He and I sent letters back and forth from Kotzebue, Fairbanks and Helsinki. He was REAL old and since I was a toddler he would tell me fascinating stories about these kids he knew that were nearly killed by their drunken folks. The fictional characters he called "hitler bitch" or "that drunk bitch" and "little fuckin' bastard" and all their filthy children.

He also told me about little children just like me and my sisters that Grandma Dorothy used to care for. One morning all us kids were bathing and Grandma Dorothy saw strange marks on my sister Moira. "Young lady, where did you get these?" Whereupon Moira simply stated, "Mommy whipped me on my privates." Grandma Dorothy started bawling and went to chat with my grandpa. His counsel was "if you call the police, you'll never see your grandkids again."

I draw a blank. Must've been before the stroke. I think that's where I lost my place. Now when I look at old photos my stomach hurts real bad. So does my neck, back and ball sack and fault line circumcision. Don't everybody wake up to bitter acid liquor muke in their throats? I do.

I sure don't understand much anymore. I'm scared I pulled a charley gordon: the retard just like me in Flowers For Algernon. Every morning I awake hungover as shit and look through my overflowing bin of papers. These stories and recollections don't make sense. Likely from someone else who sure has been using up a lot of my typewriter ribbon.

I've a suspicion someone is fucking around with my computer too.

Drink anyone?

Karl.

















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