I'm sitting here typing stupidly just outside the slider door of my room-for-rent. The end of my Turkish Silver glowing, dripping smoke upwards in the slow mountain wind coming off the majestic Hualalai. I can't sleep from the news I just received not much more than 24 hrs ago. The background noise is an old Art Bell broadcast from 1997. I must have been 14 when this was first broadcast, living under my parents apartment roof, well, on the first floor under the second story roof. It's only just after 2 a.m. here, but my screen clock is still set to West Coast time. I can't sleep because my mom has set up an intervention for me. An intervention that has been compromised because I was tipped off about her plans prior to my arrival and surprise at the hotel. She let every one in my family know her concerns about my well being and her plans to rectify my ungodly choices and manner of life I have lived thus far.  Despite the wisdom of her parents, the insight of relatives closer to myself than she is, she proceeded with her loony, albeit loving plans.
I love the woman who gave birth to me, the one who allowed herself to be bamboozled by some Charlatan hiding under the disguise of a concerned Christian organization.
I love both of my parents, including the man who sired myself, the one who has repeatedly gone along with my mothers good hearted, albeit destructive ideas.
It is only a matter of hours now until the flight that is supposed to take me to uncertain folly. I have a self sustained life, with plans for the future to consider. I have a borderline destitute mother who has taken out an exorbitant loan with the hopes of saving her son's life.
I can't tell her I know about her stupid, albeit concerned plans.
It's my fault she's concerned, I know that, and take that guilt in this debacle.
I broke my neck two years ago this month. I ate an Ambien and had a few beers while I was chatting with my neighbor and sitting on my second story rail. He went to the kitchen to grab another beer, when he came back I was on the concrete below. I was lucky. Hospital for three days, neck brace for a month, and tons of painkillers. I went to see The Hangover that following weekend(I fell on a Sunday night).
That was two years ago.
I know I don't get back to see them very often, it averages about three years or so. I know I don't answer every time they call, or even return when they leave messages. All in all I would say that I'm a bad son. I won't say that I'm a bad person.
That may not make a lot of sense, I found that life has been a continually shifting pair of lenses that find and loose clarity, it makes sense, then bashes it to a billion fractions of "if", or "could have".
It's been the worst day so far. I hope you have a better one for now.