Hating Verna Lee Westbury Cribb, My Mother, with All of My Heart
Most would probably say that I hated my mother, but most are also fools of a weak intellect who perpetuate misery for the most in their midst. Most would proclaim, “How could you, how could you write such things, how could you be so judgmental; so harsh to your own flesh and blood? How could you rip your mother and father apart like that? How could you be so full of hate towards your very own parents?” To that same most, I offer the return barrage: you of such limited awareness and understanding , you who are terrified of the factual truth which is always a mixture of light and dark, you, creator of self-serving infectious delusion and rewriter of histories, you are the one who bastardizes the Angel known as Verna Lee Cribb. You are the one who could never truly know, understand, or love my mother. As you rewrite everything and everyone for your own purpose, tolerance, and digestion, you deconstruct the actual existence of everything. You pretend that your “love” enlightens you to a superior state of appreciation where you see only the “good” or the “scripted perfection” of all, but you honor and cherish and love nothing. Your taint applied to everything means your world is only a mirage of your pathological egocentric dependence on delusion and fantasy. You cannot love, honor, or cherish things that are not themselves. You cannot make something into something it is not. The fictitious and fanciful deformation you impose on others and on creation may serve your pitiful desires seemingly for a period of time, and you might even be able to induce a mass hypnosis upon others within the heard to support your claims through such antics, but your implementation of you, defines you as a creature of the void, of emptiness, of fiction, and of non-existence. Your cries of contempt at truth, my awareness, my words, my sight, my voice, my passion, my objectivity, are really only cries from your empty void; pleas to rip the wings off of Angels, so those Angels may be grounded in your tomb of nihility; grounded in that dark, detached, and numb tomb to make your barrenness more bearable by their presence. And of course, the only light you ever allow to be cast in that murky labyrinthine chamber of desolation is your light; the soft light of mirage; the sick, twisted, pseudo-light of infinitely prismed distortions. Those grounded Angels, tortured and isolated, fall victim either to complete blindness in this tomb of absolute penetrating darkness or, when sparked to its bent and fractured flame, your mirage light transforms that same crypt of despair into a hellacious hall of mirrors where all vision is warped and all efforts of escape are constantly misdirected. Your taint is only that of a predatory captor or slave master. It is the pervasive taint of the Crowd of Me, Me, Me, and no matter how much it is polished or sold above balanced and objective truth, it will never allow love or respect or true appreciation. Your “forgiving” of my mother’s imperfections, your telling of “tall” tales about her soul and essence, serve only one purpose; your hypnotic tit-for-tat bridle, shackled with trickery not upon what is actually some beautiful untamed vibrant creature, but rather for you and your ilk, upon a workhorse that you really just want to ride…….and have carry the weight of all of your burdens…..and possess to keep you convenient company like all good respectful pets do…and ultimately, to whimsically steer this way and that with the reigns that you, you, hold in your grasp. You cripple the Angels with your “compliments” and “forgiving” only to spur them to your purposes. You can’t even truly appreciate the vibrant creatures that you bring down. You don’t even know the extent of the radiant existence you have successfully decimated.
To be continued…