Exclusive Issue 1 Excerpt

Tim Jones Yelvington
My Mother’s Funeral

My call home on Sunday brought bad news about my mother. Grunting
in the stall. Ambulances, firetrucks, paramedics. A teacup out there
somewhere is missing its tempest.

At one point I felt a little bit like crying. That was true in a literal sense for
a very short period of time. Tried to figure out, at 2:45 a.m., whether
it made sense to go back to sleep or make some coffee. Some of us see
beauty in Drano. A type of low-down bottle of drink. Requires slow
imbibing for maximal pleasure.

We’re seeing the old boring event with a monotone reading, a few
questions, and people standing around staring at the floor. There are
some pretty odd characters here: the woman who works as a stand-in
grandmother, the recent graduate who lives underground, the guy who
calculates worst-case scenarios. I felt like I was part of their tableau
and the conclusions they were drawing made me deeply uncomfortable,
even alienated.

My family is very flawed in ways you cannot see. It’s all about the
hyperbole and the carefully constructed propaganda. In typical domestic
fashion, here’s a lady who set her man up for failure. They chose to
honeymoon in the wrong place. They did not get very far, nor accomplish
much in the big picture, but they felt superior in their epic failure. They
share at least a part of the blame for their situation.

I am accused, on the regular, of being a hater, and of spending all of my
time complaining about things and of not complimenting good things
when they happen. When one feels hate (as with the first blush of love)
the senses are acutely active.

I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day much since my mom died. What a
lot of faith you need to start with nothing and believe you can create
something good and important. A familiar set of circumstances:
attachment to a new place, a new way of defining oneself. You detach
and enlarge the Self simultaneously. It’s majorly hot, an asteroid with
great hair.

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