Once upon a midnight mango, whilst my parents did the tango
a dark cloud hung low over the ground
and in this cloud
this dreary cloud
brew a storm of madness that was the opposite of hope
and nobody knew this but me.
They should have seen it coming, but they didn’t
because they were too busy dancing, too busy eating caviar and french pate’.
Coulda shoulda woulda, so it goes.
A nomad moves around from place to place in order to find food. They pick up and move in order to find a better place to live. It never ends. They wander around endlessly, because they have no one place that feeds them.
I , too, am a nomad. Every time I meet new friends and learn the patterns and routines of the world around me, it’s time for me to go. My neighbors are all nomads. They don’t want to waste their money fixing up a place that they they won’t have forever. So they spend their money on things to pass the time away like french fries and plastic bobble head dash board jesuses. It’s a pointless miserable existance, unless you’re saved. Oh yeah, if you happen to be a Christian, you have death to look forward to because it’s a party every day in Heaven, so it goes. Who cares if the earth is no more than a desolate waste land. This earthly life is meant for nothing more than suffering. I have been told that if you suffer on earth, you will die and have paradise in heaven. “Come unto me, ye who are weary, and I shall give you rest.” That is the masochistic cry of many that I have met in my lifetime as a nomad.
The worst part about being a nomad, though, isn’t letting go of all the people. I really can’t stand people. They’re all the same. The faces and names change, but, in every neigborhood there is always that manic depressive control freak neighbor who always tries to make friends with me first.
The worst part about having to be a nomad is having to leave behind the fruit trees that I’ve planted. I have planted one in every place that I’ve ever lived. Perhaps, to pass something on to someone who will appreciate it, but more likely than not, they have all been chopped down by some pretentious tit who thought that they were nothing more than an eyesore.
And so here am I with my portable nomadic garden, wasting time in my eternal purgatory.
The dream is to buy back the land my parents lost. That land would have been mine, and I would be swinging in a hammock right now, with sweet juicy mango pulp oozing down my chin and all over my fingers, had it not been for my mother. Was it ignorance that she lost the land? Perhaps. I guess you could say that. She lost it all one night in a black jack game. Had she taken a few classes on black jack at the local community college or read a few books on the subject, maybe she wouldn’t have lost the land that cold and stormy evening. Of course, I thought everyone knew that if you gambled, you always end up loosing in the end. Coulda shoulda woulda, so it goes.
So here I am sitting, hoping, wishing, praying, that one day, I will be able to have the money it takes to buy back that land, and turn it back into what it was meant to be. But that land is now worth a fortune. It will take a lifetime to save enough money to buy it.
So since I’m stuck in purgatory. I’ll just take the small piece of land that I’ve got, and turn it into my own personal miniature paradise.
Is the story true? if there is no truth to my story, then what’s the point in telling it? And why do I feel that it must be told?