This morning, around James and 5th, a woman across the street waves at me. She is around 50, black, and wearing a tracksuit. I think it is my mother. She is on her morning walk; she is waving at her son. But a closer look reveals the waving person to be not my mother but a crackhead who has mistaken me for a crackhead or dealer. I look away from her and walk up the hill.
But to slip by a trick of light and colors into that split second was something wonderful. In that split second I believed that my dead mother was alive and out and about. She was in the world with her own body. The thing about a death is that it finishes not so much the person but the relationship with that person. Instead of the subject/object relationship, there is now only a subject—you who survives. The death of a close person is the total internalization of that person. Your living body becomes the site of their burial. It is here inside that the dead have something like an afterlife (alive but not alive, in time but not in time). They roam the body like a ghost roams a tomb.
To see my mother in the crackhead was a liberation. For once she was outside instead of inside. The illusion of her freedom made me happy for a split second.
Sometimes at SIFF I run into people who wave to me that I’ve met elsewhere and it’s hard to place them.
Especially if I met them in costume at Burning Man or an Arts event where they were dressed up.
You sure you weren’t smoking any crack?
I don’t say this often about your posts Mudede, but I gotta say I kinda liked that.
Yes.
Do things like this more often
Any potential complaints about the content of the post were negated by the content of the first comment.
beautiful sentiment, charles.
This is sweet. Nicely done.
I’m with @3, credit where credit is due. Well stated, sir.
very nice, charles.
jesus, you are a terrible writer.
jesus, you are a terrible writer.
jesus, you are a terrible writer.
wierd.
i said something almost exactly like that at my moms’ funeral 2 months ago.
but, you know, more positive. so my entire family didn’t collapse in despair.
That was beautiful.
TRIPLE SERIOUS SCORE!!!!!!!
SERIOUSLY.
SUMTIMES I THINK I SEE MUDDY CHARLES MUDEDE WATERS IN SEATTLE. BUT I DON’T. B/C HE IS A GHOST WHO LIVES ON THE INSIDE OF AN AUTOGRAPHED FIRST EDITION OF DAS CAPITAL. LIKE THE PUCK OF DA PAGES. HE TOOK TOO MANY MUSHIES AND THEN TURNED INTO AN APE AND A BLOB AND A GOAT HEAD AND THEN INTO A BOOK AND A CRACK-ED AND THEN A MAGAZINE EDITOR TYPE AND THEN HE WAS AFRICAN TOO.
What’s really fun is when someone waves at you, you wave back, and then you realize they were waving at someone behind you.
@6 – that was the point.
My mom was in the hospital, terminal. About 6 of her kids and their spouses were there, we were all talking and raising a ruckus. She had the room where you could come out of the elevator and hear the ruckus down the hall, like there was a party going on there.
It was hot. My mom wanted the floor fan moved over. She asked the nurse.
The nurse struggled and bent down to look at the outlet, because the cord wasn’t long enough to reach where my mom wanted the fan to be.
After a few moments my mom says pretty loud, “you know, they sure are reluctant to pull the plug in this place!”
The nurse’s face went from pure fear to smiling in an instant — the instant it registered that all of us cracked up with laughter.
In this moment, my mom is alive always.
Your mom being a crack head would explain a lot
Well-spoken, Charles. I’ve had the same experience many times.
@11 To what of Jesus’ literary efforts do you refer?
This was very sweet, Charles. But you know, happiness itself is like crack cocaine, and having tasted it for a split second, you’re going to want more. But where? That wasn’t your mother, and there are no happiness dealers on the street.
I am also glad to hear that Will met some people at Burning Man but don’t know who they were. This is the kind of news that I live for.
Mr. Mudede – That was beautiful and true.
#22: What, you don’t know that hymn?
This is actually poignant and cohesive, unlike most of your posts–which typically baffle me. I frequently have the same thoughts about my dead father, desperate to see him for a few seconds longer and happy to believe in a short illusion. Well put, Charles.
i catch a bus everyday on 3rd in front of DESC accross from the courthouse. i often see the same homeless guy sitting in the shelter window who is the spitting image of my dad towards the end of his life from cancer at 52…right down to the intensity of their eyes. the guy looks like hell and reminds me of my dad in his most heartbreaking physical and emotional state, but dammit seeing that guy makes me awfully happy. if i remember correctly charles, my dad dad died right around the same time as your mom. now thanks to you, in the outside instead of inside of my mind, i’ll watch for my homeless guy hanging out with your 50 year old crack dealer and imagine they’re hanging out together.
Very nice post, Charles. Thank you.
Adding to the love. Beautiful post. Thanks for writing, Mr. Mudede.
At least she brought a little joy to somebody’s day. Even if it wasn’t on purpose.
Charles, For once you make sense. This is exactly the way I feel about life-like dreams of my dead grandmother, only better.
Thanks for putting into words what I’ve often felt about my mom.
Great post, Charles. I’m going to call my mom now.
Nice post Charles. I would like to think that this is the real You instead of that pompous windbag who often posts under your name.
I really liked your thoughts here.
very nice, charles
You had a subject-object relationship with your mom? Poor mom.
I’ve seen my mother in others only a few times since she passed. One time it was more a feeling that a sight. I choose to believe that she is with me when needed. I think any connection with our lost loved ones is one to be cherished. I’m glad you had it.