bluemaas.public.iastate.edu/chapter_four
That one ear that works was struck as if stoned. What had he been up to now? It was 08 April 1993. I thought I could anticipate anything from
him. After all, he was so predictable,
Herry was. I thought there was nothing
he could do, no trick he could pull, no lie he could tell – inside or out of a
courtroom even – that I wouldn’t be prepared to learn of by now.
… to which, just as much out of that blue, Jesse replied, “
… Okay sure Ma, but the TV movie deal fell through ‘cuz of you, didn’t it?”
What is she going to do? Demand an explanation of how it is that they all can, in the State of Iowa, in any state of America, legally, let alone, morally nail her and her Boys? Yeah, right. Like, sure she is. They just do it, no explaining, no need to.
Case closed. ”
Willard Albert William Maas was born 22 December 1919, a mama’s
first child, a Monday’s child ---- just as I am also born on a Monday’s 22
December back in the day some several Winter Solstices later.
Today on 30 March 2014, it happens to be the 22nd
anniversary of Daddy’s suddenly, and literally, falling down. Dead. In 1992, on yet another Monday. And still quite fair of face was he then, too.
This time of year ---- March and April ---- the springtime
of 1974, the man was on his tractors most of these daytimes. One particular late afternoon then I
telephoned him from my Buchanan Hall dormitory room at Iowa State
University. Only inside the house
because of coffee break with his wife, he took my call at the simple, black
rotary – dial telephone nesting as it always did on its specific crook – in –
the – wall platform between the massive farm kitchen and the domicile’s living
room, “Daddy?”
“Yes, Kitty … …, why, hello there!”
“Hi, Daddy. O, I’m
okay. I guess. Yeah.
I’m okay. I could be better.”
“O? better, Kitty?”
“Yeah, Daddy. Uh, well,
ya’ know? It’s been some eight years
since I looked at a chemistry textbook.
Till this term, ya’ know. And,
ah, and well, tomorrow? Tomorrow, Daddy,
I have this quarter’s first organic chemistry examination. 8 o’clock.
Tomorrow morning. Morrison and
Boyd. That’s the text.”
“O? Yeah?”
“And, ah, and well, I
have no idea what I’m doing. No idea. Three weeks in to the course, Daddy. I am just hookin’ carbons onto bonds here and
there willy nilly ---- as many as looks good to me, Daddy. Sometimes upwards of 17 or more. Whatever.
And, well, ya’ know, doncha’, that that is soooo not gonna cut it, is
it?!”
“I’m hanging up and heading to the car right now. I’ll gas up and I’ll be there in 2 and a half
hours’ time. Just hang on, Kitty.”
And. He was. He drove straight up to Ames. Right then and there. And sat with me across my wee, two – seater
table until midnight. Then we both
slept. He on blankets on the floor of my
single – person, graduate – / and international – student dorm room. At 7:30am after he had made for me black
coffee, a peanut butter sandwich and a peeled orange, I left for Gilman Hall’s
gargantuan, slanted and sloped auditorium to sit there for this, my first ever, organic
chem examination.
One mighty tiny but so, so important instruction of Daddy’s
to me from the night’s study before which no one else ---- no one, not even the
course’s instructor Dav__ Lam___ then, had ever, ever taught, let alone, simply
mentioned, say, even one time in class, “Just remember, Kitty: the valence of carbon is four. Remember that, and you’ll do fine.”
Admission in to ISU’s College of Veterinary Medicine 40
years ago now, was gained by way of pre – veterinary grade point – average + in
– person interview. That same springtime
then, the letter arrived
into my Buchanan Hall mailbox. 769 formal
applicants wanting admission for that next Fall 1974, 98 admissions granted for
our first year ---- of which, for that upcoming autumn, 16 were women. I was 26 years old and one of them.
*****
C.O.N.T.R.A.S.T. that fathering with this one: re a daddee who in real life wanted, for big,
big $, to tell / to sell a “family tale” not so t.r.u.e. at all !
from Chapter 4, “No
Witnesses, But Hey, Still No Contact” of Book I: I Think
What I Will of the Mother – Fucking trilogy, p 12 – 14:
“Straight up: Dr.
Herod Edinsmaier has tried – unsuccessfully – since Christmastime 1992, when
the last state district court order fell down upon us, to strike a deal for his fable
with the Hollywood – based – on – a – true – story industry.
“I saw the contract, Ma.
It was for $100,000 plus 5% of somethin’. What’s that mean, 5%? It was really, really thick. It has many, many pages,” Jesse recounted.
Zane’s voice lowered.
It seemed to trail away from my ear as, in that itty bitty park with one
shelter and two picnic tables, he confirmed to me a day after I’d hooked up
with Jesse, “Well, yeah, ya’ know, Ma, it would have made you out to look like
the … murderer.”
So my mind had taught itself to focus on something that
would emanate warmth and light, like the western sky of the setting sun, as I
continued up the block to the driveway.
And by the moment that I reached into the standard black - flap mailbox
for the small bundle of envelopes there, I had then had sufficient time to
prepare for and insulate myself from the ones with letterhead return addresses
of the various lawyers and the various state district and appellate
courts. When there were such letters
there, I had already by now mentally run through the worst – case scenario of
what was on their pages and could detach my mind from the physical pain that
would come from actually reading then what was on the inside of such envelopes
when I finally got inside the house.
This ritual occurred daily. It
had to. This was the way I could take on
the hits. Except on Sundays when, of
course, the mail didn’t come. Sundays
were a reprieve day.
* *
* *
Here I was at last, 3½ years since Saturday, 13 October
1990, since the Boys’ judicially sanctioned abduction, here I was in Montclank,
West Virginia, now, April 1994, risking it all.
Whatever the ‘it’ was that I might have even had. I mean, when I can no longer have any contact
whatsoever with my kids, what exactly is the ‘it’ I am risking now anyhow? For one clandestine meeting with my own
children.
I was so overjoyed. I
had actually found one – Jesse – in training and practicing with other freshmen
at the cinder track beside the high school in an adjoining burg, Grubtrop, West
Virginia. After practice we had driven
over to some park he knew of and directed me to in nearby Montclank for
secrecy.
One tear silently tracked down my drawn cheek in Ol’
Black’s front seat packed to the hilt on its passenger side. I looked through the rear – view mirror at
Jesse sitting just right behind me and quietly stated out of the clear blue,
“Before I die, Jesse, I am getting this down on paper. I have to write this down. I am not going to be dead an’ve had no way of
leaving my Truth for you three to know.
All you know now is what the judges ordered and what Herry and Ms.
Fannie Issicran McLive have told you. So
then … you don’t know. I have to write a
book, Jesse.”
“Always prepared” now and without skipping a beat, I
nonchalantly declared, while gripping the wheel to keep from shaking and
showing it, “Well, ya’ know, Jesse, those movie contracts, they’re all pretty
standard. Nothing, ya’ know, unusual now
really.”
Nothing unusual?
Nothing unusual?! M’god, I had
just learned that this man, Dr. Edinsmaier, had been trying to sell his soul
and those of his three Boys and mine to the highest bidder! And when I, in that very split second,
realized that, it all made perfect sense.
Of course, he had been. Of
course, he had tried to do this. Had
tried to get more money into his life again.
First, by not having to pay out child support ‘cuz he’d gotten the kids,
now a movie deal that paid fairly well.
Certainly well enough to recover any previous court and lawyer
outlays. With some profits left over to
boot. Of course, he had done such a
thing.
After all, this is the exact same individual who had gotten
clean, slick away in an American courtroom in the third trial of this matter
back in October 1992, WITHOUT CALLING ONE SINGLE WITNESS TO THE STAND to
testify for his side or on his behalf.
NOT EVEN HIMSELF! And yet had
managed to maneuver ‘the court’ therefrom, the State of Iowa’s Second Judicial
District Court, the far less than ‘honorable’ Judge Harley Butcher, which, of
course, is the real name of ‘the
Court’, to order that the Boys and I have ABSOLUTELY NO CONTACT WITH EACH OTHER.
Obviously, it doesn’t take too many witnesses to maneuver
‘the court’ when you are a white male bigwig pillar of a middle - class
American community. Precisely like the
pillars that are that same community’s lawyers and judges. Actually, it takes exactly zero
witnesses. Did you catch that? Does the incredulity of that ‘finding of fact’ sink in to you,
Reader, yet?
Why, these pillars are masterful schmoozers on the golf
greens, the racquetball courts and in the steam room Wednesday and Friday
afternoons after allegedly smashing each other about first in morning sessions
on those courts that are laid out inside little American county seats. It’s their usual manner of declaring
‘respect’ for each others’ legal genius and prowess.
More money in his life, too, because this feat involved no
paying off whatsoever by Dr. Edinsmaier.
He hadn’t even needed to consider doing that. Besides being messy and risky, that just
wasn’t necessary. ‘The Court’, Judge
Butcher, given the same set of Dr. Edinsmaier’s circumstances would have
accomplished the same thing had he been the children’s father and been pissed
off by such a pussy as obviously was the former wife of the good, good
doctor’s, that piece of pussy cunt named Legion True.
* *
* *
Absolutely no contact with each other. Now that is
unusual, you say?
Not really. Not at
all. O, sure, it was a precedent. A precedent,
mind you!
But that didn’t stop a district court, a court of appeals or
a supreme court. They knew they had no
need to explain away themselves and their rulings to a peon female with
absolutely no money and … no attorney. What is she going to do? Demand an explanation of how it is that they all can, in the State of Iowa, in any state of America, legally, let alone, morally nail her and her Boys? Yeah, right. Like, sure she is. They just do it, no explaining, no need to.
The good doctor wants her to have no contact? The good judges, who look like they come
from, which they ‘course do, the same Pendleton wool bolt that the good doctor
comes from, order up what he wants them to.
What they would want him to order up if they were in his very white,
white shirt, its collar trimmed and secured with the diamond – studded gold
clip, and in his glove - snug Armani oxfords instead.
No witnesses. But,
hey, still no contact Judge Butcher carved out.
And so ordered.
“And you know better?” Detective Sunday queries the American
Gigolo.
“Some people are above the law,” Julian Kay responds coolly.
“Well, how do these people know who they are?”
“They know. They ask
themselves.” Case closed. ”
from Chapter 29, “That
Woman Deserves Her Revenge” of Book III:
the Opera: We Were Mothers Once, and Young of the Mother
– Fucking trilogy, pp 498 - 499:
“Mirzah
did come. I don’t recall how –– not by
bus and not by airplane, I am thinking, so it may have been by way of one of
Herry’s many, many mooching roadtrips out from West Virginia to sponge off of
his Midwest relatives, also an imposing behavior of his which old acquaintances
and central Iowans who knew him (‘member Jury, Abby and Devin and their two
little girls?) had experienced firsthand from Herod Edinsmaier multiple times
in the past. Freeloader Herry had been
rather infamous for some time in regard to … his blatantly massive buggery of
aprovechar – taking.
It seems to me that the only way a person, to himself or to herself, could get away with this conduct over and over and for
such a long, long time would have to be by simple self – justification; ya’
know –– denial. Denial to yourself of
who you truly are.
But not in the case of the superior Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier.
Even though the justification to himself –– of why
so much taking is mightily A – okay –– is the same as anyone else’s who has
countenanced themselves in this narcissistic fashion year after adult year,
that is by the self – centered egoism of, “My presence in your space is thanks
enough from me! If I deign to grace you
with My Self, then that is my gratefulness to you aplenty,
Cunt!” Then Aprovechar – Herry would
simply proceed to take: food, lodging, another’s labors and
preparations, fawning over, booze, O JYeah … lots and lots of others’ hooch
back in the day when I’m – Entitled – to – Drive – Drunk Herod Edinsmaier still
drank –– and, most especially, Vulvae – Sniffing Herry took for himself from
any and all vulvae – harboring hostesses what he considers his kingly right of
enslaving – DEhuman ownership, “DO for me, Pussy. I AM
The Exalted One. Now you DO for ME. Got that, Twat?”
So … Herry knew! Corrupt Herry always knew that he was taking; it was never a matter of his having
to deny to himself his greed, his
arrogance and that sicko sense of daMan’s total entitlement. Dr. Herod Edinsmaier merely and quite
consciously made it His Choice to take ––
without
reciprocal remuneration, without so much as the work of any thinking even given over to any reciprocity forthcoming from him –– just any ol’ friggin’ time that it pleased him to do
so.
No matter how wonderful for children Ames is ––
including and, most especially, for teenagers
–– and no matter how much Mirzah and Jesse wanted to be together again,
Mirzah’s coming to live with me,
Legion True, would not have happened anywhere unless Herry hadn’t, first, found in its occurrence something in it
for himself. After all, this, remember,
is the same guy who along with
Shyster Shindy Scheisser’s ‘legal aid’ less than just three to four years
earlier, had taken it upon themselves to try to vengefully fling and flail
–– as well as to quite handsomely profit
monetarily from flapping –– Herry’s side of the story out there to Hollywood in
the form of that made – to – TV film which Violent, Violating, Passive
Aggressor Herry had wanted to sell.
Jesse had actually seen, as you know Jury, the tentative contract with
the television company and its producers, “ … for $100,000 plus 5% I saw, Ma,”
Jesse had related to me. “What’s
the ‘5 percent’ part mean, Mom?”
Zane
had seen it, too, the movie’s draft contract, “ … where you’re gonna be made
out to be … ah, um, ya’
know, to look like ‘the murderer’ in it, Ma.
In the movie it’s gonna be you, Mama, who’ll be seen as … as
… the bad guy, ya’ know.”
“But
you stopped it, didn’t ya’, Mama? It
didn’t happen cuz of you, right? You
wouldn’t sign with the film guys. You
wouldn’t even speak to ‘em, would ya’, Ma?” Jesse had been fishing from me ––
as my knuckles gripped the wee white rental’s steering wheel back inside that
1993 April afternoon of the clandestine Montclank park to where Jesse and I had
driven off –– to be safe while we talked.
To be away from any central West Virginia public who might get a notion
that this concrete truck – driving Sam – ‘man’ … with Jesse … just didn’t quite act ‘right’ after all –– like a
manly man, like a true fatherly dude.
That he was, instead, a she trying
to disguise herself into looking like the teenaged kiddo’s daddy!
I
hearkened back to the lesson, the one made more emphatic and memorable for me
by his air – thumping gesturing during it, the lesson from my attorney of the
Opera’s Act One, Mr. Jazzy Jinx, who had felt compelled to leave it with
me: In his experience by then of 20
years’ practicing general law including family matters, he had never –– not one time –– seen a father press for
custody of children who had actually truly
wanted … to parent them. Daddee wanted legal custody for three reasons
only, none of which reasons had been for exactly that –– that long, long effort of disciplining and sustained … woooork!
Mostly daddee wanted (the nightmarish
battling fights over) custody because of the vengeance of it all that his then
having all control over her children afforded to him
against the bitch. Secondly, Mr. Jinx
divulged, had been because of the money –– of course, the child support
bucks. That third reason, though, was a
bit more elusive. Daddee wanted the
children in order to somehow flee the work of it all: to get someone else in there, such as a
barely fuckable and cuntly Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, to do the routine,
continual daily work of engagedly
true parenting which that mean ol’ battleaxe – ex of his, the kiddos’ actual
mama, had seemed to have to keep after him, their father, to do when they were married
–– and that he soooo was not about to
even start thinking on doing … after
… the two of them had gotten divorced!
“Fathers,”
Mr. Jinx was certain in his tone, “just want to look good in front of the kids
and the folks at work and around town.
Dad also wants to look good to the other people in his family who think
that he should ‘want’ his kids. But
but but,” Mr. Jinx carefully
pounded an invisible wall with his right palm and fingers
fully extended with each ‘but’, “believe me, I’ve seen it a long, long time ––
and it never changes. He wants her to
suffer –– sure; that is why he
initially goes after custody, but he also doesn’t want the work
of it –– ever! So that’s why, if the judge
ends up giving him custody, why, that’s why he marries! Right away!
Or at least he gets himself coupled with somebody else, a surrogate
mommy, a proxy …
And right away.
Trust me!”
In this specific divorcing father’s case then, the
summer of 1995, and Jesse’s and Mirzah’s both
coming back to me in Ames provided for Herry Edinsmaier –– finally
in that former and flamboyant Family – Deconstruction Project of Herry’s more –
or – less hatched to fruition back here in his house – of – cards’ bachelor pad
on Ames’ Othello Drive –– his very own …
Escape From Accountability! Cuz quite apparent by now, it was evidentiarily and testimonially a total certainty that the particular
next ‘official’ Mrs. Herod Edinsmaier, Ninny Fannie Issicran McLive –– as the
King – Daddee’s nanny –– was not at all turning out to be what
she had initially cracked herself all up to be at succeeding in … the actual –
work – of – parenting – His Majesty’s
– descendents’ department!
There
had been then, right off, with Ninnie Nannie Fannie that grand and old, old
patriarchal mawwiage thingy of “one flesh” wherein she, the woman of said
mawwiage, stands as not a thing more really than a collection of additional organs of his, of the husband’s! Of daMan’s!
And since Ms Fannie Issicran McLive’s functioning in such a union within
the masquerade of a separate human – like structure for the purposes of
procreation was soooo not needed, then her operating as a home – and – hearth
keeper along with her handling of other incidentals such as the keeping
aaaaaway of the Ex Pussy –– way away from King Herod as well as altogether away
from his West Virginian Territory –– why, His Added Organs had performed at all
of these matters quite dismally, quite diss – functionally! Utterly abysmally! Subsequently, King Herod, as such the
prescribed owner of the “one flesh” and, thus, of her … had had for himself a
most disturbed pattern to trying to live his androcentric adult life … as He, The Human Being, wished!
Thus: “ … the
something in it for himself” finally became most
clear: The Last Fleshy, Organismic
Mother – Fuck, Legion, can sooo be kept waaaay away along with that added,
major bonus of the Slacker’s ‘sorta’ workload reality even more than halved! if
… if …. if Mirzah and Jesse are simply sent away back –– to her!”
