notes from 6, 7, and 8

Back then, what little family I had left, after the exile from the other house of Smolensk, seemed as brittle as toast. Not too dark, but just right, so long as it didn’t break apart. Especially if I wanted it. Needed it. When I did, under dire circumstances, I reached. And my only concern became a reality; it crumbled. In tiny increments like the clicks you feel when wringing a wet towel, I felt in my heart. It turned on a warning in my mind and I was going to have to start taking care of things without asking for help. I was traumatized from asking help from my fellow man at 9, but I was just told not to talk to strangers, so I guess it fits.

As a kid, you’d think things were your fault if something went wrong, despite the usual consolation people normally gave, that’s the way it’s always been. Partly because it’s terrible seeing a child in silent turmoil, the child having no clue to what turmoil is, and how you know that there’s plenty more where that came from. Breaking it to a child would be like exposing Santa Claus, then explaining it’s his spirit that real in your hearts and most people emulate Christmas at least once a year, and then some. Except some people can live without Christmas, there are options and prerequisites and so on, and that’ll be dealt with when the time comes, but explaining to a child why he feels like it’s midnight during lunchtime, all the time, is several times harder, because not all families were orthodox (I reached my late teens before I discovered not all families were like the Bundy family on Married with Children, as mine was, excluding the laugh tracks and lessons learned at the end of the day.) and ultimately, turmoil ain’t an option, and everyone celebrated it multiple times a year. Tell the kid it isn’t his fault, was all the adults could do, it was the bare minimum expected after all, I wondered if they ever felt guilty when giving an absolution like that to a child, like a priest would to someone who wanted to repent. If they told me something like, say, bumble bees can’t see the color white, that would’ve helped, because after being told that, I was more confused because it actually proved my lesson with that stupid piece of toast. It was a stupid piece of bread that shared the same attributes and philosophy as living and surviving in this family.

I couldn’t entire blame the failures of adults, they were always the same, with that same rote menial philosophies, and new ones got their right their rights of passage everyday like driving permits. When a good one came along, it usually meant they were just as disappointed as a child, and found their own path, which can be any path as long as it didn’t involve crime, which was fine with me. I survived that particular phase of turmoil by inducting myself as an honorary member of the Bundy family. I couldn’t physically communicate with them, but it was no different from being an actual Smolensk. Sharing my thoughts wasn’t allowed, and encouraged not to happen, because I would ‘sound silly‘. I suppose it’s true, I don’t really listen to what most kids say today, and my parents just thought it’d be simpler just to ban it. It was easy, just follow the rules, until one November day of my 8th year. Sam Prochazka, my father, returned after a five year absence. I was not to find out exactly why, for the next nine years.

It was my mother, Janice Merriwether, she spoke broken English despite what her name suggested, raised in Brussels where Italian, German, and French, were all considered a primary language (I researched this information alone), and she was fluent in all of them as well as Czech, Slavic, Russian, and Spanish, and sign language. The wide array of languages she spoke, had always discouraged me from ever trying to learn one because it was exhausting to be disappointing as a Smolensk, and by avoiding certain attempts altogether, as I discovered, I was able to avoid a good deal of emotional battery of my upbringing, and at the same time, exercised my wit and cunning as a child. However, my baby brother Moriz, or Morri, Smolensk was not as lucky, he got the bashings. I was only a few years older as it began, but said nothing to help my brother. I didn’t know how. Even the Bundy’s couldn’t teach me how to look after my brother. Guilt and disappoint meant was all I felt when I was around my brother, and the only way I thought I could do as his big brother, was to stand with him when he was scolded. We never spoke about it or recapped any exceptional scolding, I just stood there and took it with him, and ended up receiving half my brother’s emotional beatings. I was pardoned from the physical ones earned, fortunately, but got them more often because my mind often wandered. Which gave my parents a highly inaccurate judge of my character. The verbal scoldings were like felonies, and the physically beatings were misdemeanors. They believed my brother was the felon, when I was really the mastermind that caused them to believe that. I’ve pondered a confession several times, but it was really much too terrifying to consider as it that would only mean more malcontent toward my brother. My mother and father were convinced their unorthodox approach to raising kids would raise model citizens, and that sounded like a good thing to be at the time, staying invisible was a great way to survive.
Later, when I decided to let my balls speak, I absolved myself from the guilt of my brother’s turmoil later during my years of rebellious teenage angst, which freed my brother into an explosion of artistic vision, and caused an ongoing

I wasn’t a coward by nature, I was a coward by choice and because it was the best way not to cry. The cowards I met in school were cowards by nature, so they wept often. But cowards or lions, I ran indiscriminately. Of course, at 9 years old, I had no idea that people would judge me anyway. Judgement of a person was like a weapon everyone already knew how to use. But having visited multiple courtrooms as a child on various occasions, it was already crystal clear to me that an officiated Judge in an American courtroom was the only judgement that I should give a fuck about about because their judgments actually had the potential to not only be inconvenient, but can cause me some form of distress. I’ve only seen one judge on my behalf as I write this. I wondered if God would look that scary in a black robe when he was in a courtroom. (Come to think of it, people aren’t too crazy about white robes on earth. As for the unofficial judges at school it seemed simpler than correcting their presumptions of what my world was like. I’d have to explain what to a child what it was like to feel like it was midnight, at all hours of the day. I’d have to explain the meaning of turmoil to a child of my peer, and probably have killed Santa Claus several times over in the process and become infamous among New Wellington Elementary, as the emotionless 9-year-old Son of Sam. My established connections were already rubbish. I’ve never heard my brother speak an entire paragraph to me (still to this day.), so making a friend at nine years old, seemed over-priced, and I probably had anything else to do, the most important factor resulting in my conclusion, was because we moved every two months. New faces, new stories about me I’ll never know.

I’ve always wanted to hear them, and who knows, I might might have turned out differently. Their presumptions were probably far from the actual truth, but at least somebody thought something nice about my life. I couldn’t believe anyone would imagine a worse story for me than the midnight I was actually living in. I may not have been a 9-year-old Son of Sam, aside from the obvious technicality, but I was a 9 year-old that never really got a chance to be a young, curious and stupid kid. Jan and Sam saved time by skipping all that and I was actually a 9 year old man, that skipped the second grade. Somehow, I was an accomplishment to them. I had no idea all the little problems I ran from were chasing me all along. When they caught up to me, it was a fucking bloodbath. A bloodbath that allowed me to try it all over again, with tact and finesse, and the heart of a Bundy, and the resources of a 16 year old. I no longer was the son of Sam, and really was the Son of Sam after all.



These stranger thoughts came to me when I was bored, so I had nothingbut stranger thoughts throughout my days as a legal child. I was also forced to mimic a statue when I was out in public, or my mother would slap my ear, which didn’t hurt so much as it stung and confused me, as if physically slapping my ear would improve a child’s attention span. In my youth, disciplinary action was to be taken if I acted like one. That was another thing I had to run away from. It was higher on my list because this didn’t involve a scolding. It was a cold slap, point and stare, like a puppy guilty of the urine on the rug.


About Daniel C.A.S.

Why is it that the clerk at the convenience store makes me feel inadequate? View all posts by Daniel C.A.S.

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