Friday, February 26, 2016

On Love

Love is a difficult thing to talk about. There is the limitations of our language, and the language that we have become so accustomed to is not untrue, but at this point has little impact. I am in love. I feel so lucky. How does that come close to capturing how transformed my life is? It falls terribly short.

I don't want to describe love because it then confines love in our minds and the expectation is set. Love between me and him is bendy, it's gotta stay loose."Mating in Captivity" is not an attraction I want to see or live.

This week has been busy again. Work and more work and then a little more work in the middle of the night. But things slowed down this morning and I just laid in bed and thought of him. I was in and out of sleep but the time was devoted to him. I was calm and warm and I was smiling. I can't wait to see him again tonight. And I really mean this. I'm saying it now to no-one. I'm not trying to prove or convince. I just am. My body is here, it means my spirit is too. I'm finally starting to get it.

Thursday, February 25, 2016


I'm working on an essay about my father. This is truly an impossible story to write. Here are the questions:
Is this story about me or him?
Where does it start? When Claire (his first born daughter) died? or  when he got sick or my childhood when he was retreating?
What's the climax? there have been so many, every year a new episode?
I'm not sure what my attitude about the whole thing is... am I self pitying? over dramatic? treating my family trauma as a commodity? ambivalent? or even still just disgusted with the man, sorry for him?
So that leads me to the question of whether its time to write this piece, because there is nothing redemptive here yet, and everyone want the redemptive quality. That he doesn't die, or that if he does die, it wasn't in vain. Maybe this essay is about death... as it approaches.

Anyway, I'm working the essay from the beginning and it's slow, the momentum isn't there yet. So I would like to do a quick exercise and jump to a "what I'm thinking" portion somewhere in the middle.

Every time something like this happens, and it happens a few times a year--a call from my sister saying that Dad was supposed to pick her up but never showed, my mother calls to tell me Dad is in the hospital again for a fall or an infection, I talk to him on the phone and he's fucked up and slurring again--I wonder if this is the time he will die. Is this it? And I hope it is. Now, to say that I want my father to die would exactly capture the complicity of the feeling. When I think about his funeral, when I compose the eulogy that I will give for him, I love him again. It's easy to love him when he's the accumulation of his life, genius eating itself, a winter that blew in at midlife and never lifted, a man who's self destruction was as generous an act as he could muster, moving away so that his family might not feel the same excruciating pain he did. But when I sit across the table from him and he's slipping in and out of consciousness because of all the meds he abuses, when I smell the faint smell of shit on him, when I see that nothing I say to him lands and he's looking right through me and tells me he needs more guns for personal protection, it is so easy to hate him. I find myself imagining his funeral in the mountains often. And I've nearly completed my speech.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Ready for a Rant

Welp, the denial phase is over and I can officially consider our friendship dead. A month ago I had many things to say to you. I wanted restitution, unjustly kicked from your kingdom. I also wanted to beg for you back, demand that we drop all this nonsense and get a cup of goddamn coffee. And now I realize all those gifts you gave had a heavy toll: that I love you and no one else. You were careful to keep me on the fringe; you were the middleman between me and friendships, art, community, anything beautiful. It all always belonged to you. I'm not sure you loved me (I hope so) but you sure as heck liked me depending on you.  But as that changed, you have always justified your cruelty with "My pain is bigger than yours, therefore my actions are just." This is important only as a kind of detox for me, a lifting of a curse, reprogramming after excommunication from a cult. You had me convinced this whole time that everything else in my life was fake, and you were the only genuine piece. I missed out on valuing so much. I can recover now.
So, my dear, I don't care anymore. Whatever your problem was and is, it's not me.