START
My mother disappeared when I was eleven, and my brother was fifteen. Later, a letter came in the mail. It was typed. Said she was gone for good.
We all hated her bad. Three angry men sharing the same house. That lasted for about two years until my brother Chris moved out. Dad remained eternally fixated on mom, but after Chris went, I hated him as well and that, at least, brought a slight change in mood to our house by the woods.
During those years, I remember Dad drinking out in the yard, the folding chair, the rake. I can also see him sitting in the station wagon out in the drive. Just sitting there in the car full of groceries. The drinking ran riot over him and it never really stopped. I don’t know why he loved her like he did. In the few memories I have of her, my mother is a gaunt, angry woman. But Dad never recovered. When he’d cried at night’s end - down in the kitchen, drunk off his ass - it was always for her and never for us. Never for himself.
Thing is, I can remember all this now without letting it get to me. It seems almost like someone else’s story. I guess a lot of my problems start with him and her, but who knows. No one tells you this, but you can strip your memories to the bone. You really can. You can make your memories into facts and images and nothing more. They don’t have to mean anything.
END
— IAIN
PS: Buy my new book THE STRIP! It’s available everywhere (including Amazon).
PPS: Read my public-facing thoughts Twitter and see how I live my life on Instagram.
PPPS: This newsletter is brought to you by Evol by Sonic Youth.