Ok so I'm a big seven as in 7.
My dad's not very smart. It's probably his DNA. A string theory of letters. Genetics. Gee. Net. Icks.
Let me give you a kind hearted example of his stupidity. It's the rainy season here in Laos. Slashing squalling delicious rain. Soft, cool, soothing. Like tears. Cry me a river.
So it's pouring like honey. What's dear old dad do? He washes his silver van in a downpour. Smart eh? Yeah, he's trying with intention, to impress dry watchers with his intelligent hose running water over rain. Cleaning.
He ignores me mostly.
He's very busy. He disappears for hours. Drinking beer with friends. Playing around with a secret squeeze in dark places. Starving for affection and cash. A poor girl from a poor family needs to make a living poor thing.
My mom's really smart also. After the rain, when it's dry and the smallest full moon of the year rises above the Mekong before a river festival filled with floating orange flowers and burning candles she burns all the plastic garbage. Yeah. Burn baby burn. Light my fire.
It's a sweet smell, let me tell you. Like that Duvall character when he said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Kinda like that. Smell. What's the word? Acrid.
When she's not burning plastic trash she sweeps. Broom music. Stone cold. She cooks. She pretends to be busy. She's a baby machine. What's another mouth?
She ignores me mostly.
She's very busy. Later, she squawks. She's a soft kind later.
People here like parents and teachers and lazy passive humans love, and I mean love to pretend to be busy.
I guess it gives their short life meaning.
Their existence is one long perpetual distraction. Say what?
As Jobs said, You may as well do what you love because you're going to spend most of your life doing it.
Well, I gotta go. Feed the sparrows. Crumbs. They sing. They fly down. They eat. They fly away.
I'm too young to know much. Ain't nothing but the blues. Dust my Broom.
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