I am writing this at work. I’ll Email it to myself when I’m done and hopefully I won’t chicken out.
I decided that its time to end this one. This blog is done.
It started as humor. It chronicled the beginning of my life as a father. It followed the fall of everything that meant anything to me. There is nothing left to say.
I have written several blogs recently but all of them end up in the scrap heap. I just don’t think I am in the same head space I was before.
I’ve done it to myself again, and I hate myself for it. I may have fooled myself into thinking I was right, but being content and having goals is something that I don’t think I was meant for. I won’t give them up, but I am pretty angry for thinking that I was that lucky. I'm pretty fucking stupid for thinking that hope and I would ever be good bedfellows. I’ll have to sit back and make some adjustments.
I like to take the training wheels off of Mikaila’s bike and make it just right for her. I like to click the settings on Emma’s skates when she tells me she wants to go faster. I want to be a better man for Glenda when she tells me to “handle it”. I don’t think I have done them any favors though. I don’t think I have been good enough. I have to try harder than I did before.
Until then thank you for reading and Emailing, as a matter of fact I received a random Myspace message (I know right?) recently asking when the next one was. I don’t even check Myspace anymore so I was quite surprised. If you’re reading this my friend, I’ll send you the link when I figure it out.
I think in another form I’ll do this again.
Soon.
It was fun, and it was sad, and it was scary and thanks to everyone who made me feel like what I was saying meant anything. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like something of mine connected with anyone at all on some level.
I’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget all of you. I’ve saved all the Emails and messages. I’ve got all the links stored.
Time to shift gears.
Edit: 12/22/2010 http://zombilobotomy.blogspot.com/
Thank you.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Monday, October 05, 2009
Staring Contest
I cannot sleep.
So much has happened in this relatively un eventful life of mine. Really there is nothing different from the next life that is being lived. I’ve got a little girl I adore but that is nothing new to the world. There are very many proud fathers.
I love someone very much, but love is not something that we haven’t heard of before in this life of ours.
I need more of so very many things but desperation is nothing that we haven’t touched before.
I have learned that I have only two friends. I am not in any way saying that the whole collective of people in my life are not thought of fondly. I am not demeaning the relationships that I have that mean something to me.
I was at a dinner today someone asked me “How did you and Nick meet?”
High School.
Nick has another friend Mike who I met back then and since meeting these two boys we’ve had 4 children between the 3 of us. It struck me that these two people know me more than anyone and we are all so different, and so removed from each other. I don’t see them very often.
When we lost Erich it was hard because he was taken from us. He was robbed from the world.
Now that Robert is gone it is a different thing to me since he chose to go. Not that he and I were close. We were not.
Investing your time into someone on any level who you feel a connection to only to have them be gone suddenly though is sobering nonetheless.
I cannot help but think to myself “Who is next?”
I mean, there was Tony who I barely knew who crashed his motorcycle. There was Ari who I didn’t like who got a bullet to the gut. Paul died in a fire. He is a part of a life that is long gone. One of my old lives. I found out this weekend John died of an addiction to Morphine. I remember him as a funny older guy who I couldn’t relate to, but I’ve had a lot of that.
Death is nothing new. Its nothing special. It’s the same as life. As birth and thought and light.
It simply is.
It’s 255 AM.
I’m making more changes but that is nothing new either. I’ve spent so much time waiting. Hoping. Wanting.
Nothing new.
I throw stones from my glass castle. Guilty. Self Righteous bullshit. That is me. It is nothing that I haven’t heard before but its nice to know that someone out there loves me enough to tell me. No one ever did or ever could with such conviction.
I was cleaning the house today, and I’ve tried to clean this fucking place for so long. Every time I do though I pass a mirror and stare at it for far too long. I talk to myself and try to convince myself that even though the things I am doing have been done a thousand times over by a million other people it doesn’t mean that the effort I am making is pointless. I try to tell the mirror that I need to keep moving.
15 minutes pass and I realize that I just wasted valuable time.
2 years have passed and I’ve got nothing to show for it. That is the longest time I have ever stared at the mirror.
So much has happened in this relatively un eventful life of mine. Really there is nothing different from the next life that is being lived. I’ve got a little girl I adore but that is nothing new to the world. There are very many proud fathers.
I love someone very much, but love is not something that we haven’t heard of before in this life of ours.
I need more of so very many things but desperation is nothing that we haven’t touched before.
I have learned that I have only two friends. I am not in any way saying that the whole collective of people in my life are not thought of fondly. I am not demeaning the relationships that I have that mean something to me.
I was at a dinner today someone asked me “How did you and Nick meet?”
High School.
Nick has another friend Mike who I met back then and since meeting these two boys we’ve had 4 children between the 3 of us. It struck me that these two people know me more than anyone and we are all so different, and so removed from each other. I don’t see them very often.
When we lost Erich it was hard because he was taken from us. He was robbed from the world.
Now that Robert is gone it is a different thing to me since he chose to go. Not that he and I were close. We were not.
Investing your time into someone on any level who you feel a connection to only to have them be gone suddenly though is sobering nonetheless.
I cannot help but think to myself “Who is next?”
I mean, there was Tony who I barely knew who crashed his motorcycle. There was Ari who I didn’t like who got a bullet to the gut. Paul died in a fire. He is a part of a life that is long gone. One of my old lives. I found out this weekend John died of an addiction to Morphine. I remember him as a funny older guy who I couldn’t relate to, but I’ve had a lot of that.
Death is nothing new. Its nothing special. It’s the same as life. As birth and thought and light.
It simply is.
It’s 255 AM.
I’m making more changes but that is nothing new either. I’ve spent so much time waiting. Hoping. Wanting.
Nothing new.
I throw stones from my glass castle. Guilty. Self Righteous bullshit. That is me. It is nothing that I haven’t heard before but its nice to know that someone out there loves me enough to tell me. No one ever did or ever could with such conviction.
I was cleaning the house today, and I’ve tried to clean this fucking place for so long. Every time I do though I pass a mirror and stare at it for far too long. I talk to myself and try to convince myself that even though the things I am doing have been done a thousand times over by a million other people it doesn’t mean that the effort I am making is pointless. I try to tell the mirror that I need to keep moving.
15 minutes pass and I realize that I just wasted valuable time.
2 years have passed and I’ve got nothing to show for it. That is the longest time I have ever stared at the mirror.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Who bought that?
My little girl asks many questions. At 3 she wants to know why, and how, and what and who. One of her favorite questions is “Who bought this?”
“Who buy that Papa?”
“Who bought that you mean? What Emma?”
“Your truck Papa.”
“Papa bought it.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes its an article of clothing, and other times its something that is a part of everyday life. It is not always random or non important however. Its always something she likes to use, or wants to be a party to that she is asking “Who bought this?”.
I have no clue where she got the question from, and I can’t imagine what in the 3 year old analytical mind she uses my answer could possibly mean to her. Her Nanni, and her Papa and her Mama all answer though.
I got used to it.
There are many things I’ll never get used to when it comes to parenthood. One of those things is the fact that there is a living, breathing, human being walking around my house getting into my video games and leaving toys in my pants that not only looks like me, but is eating all my God Damned food.
I’ll never get used to finding out where Emma most recently decided to put her Tinkerbell stickers. There is one on my laptop I didn’t put there, and another on my copy of Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2 for the Xbox 360. I’ve got another on the side of my 1986 Toyota 4runner, and a new scratch and sniff sticker has recently found its way onto the linoleum.
Sometimes I wake up to the feeling of a little hand scratching my beard, and I realize that Emma has gotten out of her bed, and moved onto mine without ever opening an eyelid (this has led to one bumped head, and a few tumbles onto the floor). Although my habit has become to open one eye, lift an arm, and use it to cover her there is always a moment of shock at the tiny face with half of my face, and half of someone elses.
Another thing, is the enormous depth that children have, even if they do not realize it yet. They might not be able to form the sentence or idea that they have brought forth, but if you pay close attention you’ll be fucking astounded.
I don’t like when Emma reverts back to baby words, so I do a lot of correcting and requesting that she speak to me in full sentences. This has backfired on me, as she now hates it when I don’t respond in full sentences.
One day while she and I were enjoying watching the same episode of The Batman for the second time in a row she looks over at a tall, cylindrical oscillating fan in the corner of my living room. I haven’t noticed that she is looking because I am busy watching The Joker become a Vampire in this episode.
“Papa, who buy that?”
“Hmm”
“Papa”
“Ya.”
“PAPA”
“Mmm Hmm”
“Papa talk to me!”
“Yes Emma what is it?”
“Who buy that Papa?”
I look over and she is pointing at the fan. I didn’t really think about my answer because I remember when Vanessa and I bought it at a Wal-Mart the Summer before Emma was conceived. I didn’t want it, I liked the fan that I had, but it’s a great fan and actually does a good job of keeping the place at cool temp.
“Mama bought it Emma, like a long time ago.”
Emma's face looks confused. She tilts her head to one side and looks at me.
“Did Mama bring it over here?”
I laughed. Emma didn’t pay attention to my laughter, but I let out an amused chuckle as I answered..
“Yeah”
I realized that Emma has no concept of her mother and father being together. She has a Mama who she loves, and a Papa who she loves. She has a woman that I love who she has grown attached to and loves, and that woman has a child whom Emma loves. It has hit me that she will never know the idea of Mama And Papa, but just Mama here, and Papa there.
Emma has two homes, but when she is with me and she says “Papa lets go home now” I find myself asking “Where?” and she always answers “Home Papa to the red house”
My house is red. Vanessa’s is not. Emma associates home as home, and I am to know that she means my home when she is with me, and Vanessa is to know that her house is Emma’s home as well.
I remember my parents fighting. I remember objects thrown and tires slashed. I remember hatred and anger and the knowledge that my father is sleeping in the VW again because my mother kicked him out. I remember leaving Houston for Los Angeles with my father, and the plane trip back to Houston when my father’s pills and alcohol made him too tired to function.
I remember when Ma was hospitalized and Pop had to take care of us for a while. I remember all of it and more.
Emma and her question make me laugh because she’ll never have to know that. She’ll never want to be here or there because its “right” or “better”. She will just be because for whatever reason her mother and father have for not seeing each other at all except for every couple of months (the reasons are unimportant, but they are fact).
It might not be what anyone planned in the beginning but there is comfort that if I do it right, the idea of that will never hurt her like it hurt me for so long.
There are a number of standards we set for ourselves that I have found to be, in all honesty…
Bullshit.
Fuck love.
Fuck hate.
Fuck life.
Fuck death
Fuck me.
Fuck you too.
Fuck the idea that we meet and do a dance and drama and adhere to what was set before us. Some of us were not meant for the happy ending and white picket fence even though that is what our parents had.
Some of us were not meant for the shame and lies we were born into, and deserve better and should have it without the guilt of what we should have been.
It wont hurt Emma because we make it okay to be like this, and we wont hold our decisions over her head. Because the idea of “Woe is me, she doesn’t have her mother on a daily basis” and "I hate being a single parent" will play second to the idea that “Its time to learn and grow” and "I am me. I am special and important and there is no time to be sad when there is a life to live"
Emma has taught me many things in her 3 years on this planet. One of those things is to see what came before, and just keep going. She'll hurt so much when/if she finds out how much her Mother and Father hurt eachother.
She'll hopefully never have to adhere to the thought that she should remember any of it in order to allow her life to reach its destination.
“Who bought that?”
Because I don’t.
“Who buy that Papa?”
“Who bought that you mean? What Emma?”
“Your truck Papa.”
“Papa bought it.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes its an article of clothing, and other times its something that is a part of everyday life. It is not always random or non important however. Its always something she likes to use, or wants to be a party to that she is asking “Who bought this?”.
I have no clue where she got the question from, and I can’t imagine what in the 3 year old analytical mind she uses my answer could possibly mean to her. Her Nanni, and her Papa and her Mama all answer though.
I got used to it.
There are many things I’ll never get used to when it comes to parenthood. One of those things is the fact that there is a living, breathing, human being walking around my house getting into my video games and leaving toys in my pants that not only looks like me, but is eating all my God Damned food.
I’ll never get used to finding out where Emma most recently decided to put her Tinkerbell stickers. There is one on my laptop I didn’t put there, and another on my copy of Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2 for the Xbox 360. I’ve got another on the side of my 1986 Toyota 4runner, and a new scratch and sniff sticker has recently found its way onto the linoleum.
Sometimes I wake up to the feeling of a little hand scratching my beard, and I realize that Emma has gotten out of her bed, and moved onto mine without ever opening an eyelid (this has led to one bumped head, and a few tumbles onto the floor). Although my habit has become to open one eye, lift an arm, and use it to cover her there is always a moment of shock at the tiny face with half of my face, and half of someone elses.
Another thing, is the enormous depth that children have, even if they do not realize it yet. They might not be able to form the sentence or idea that they have brought forth, but if you pay close attention you’ll be fucking astounded.
I don’t like when Emma reverts back to baby words, so I do a lot of correcting and requesting that she speak to me in full sentences. This has backfired on me, as she now hates it when I don’t respond in full sentences.
One day while she and I were enjoying watching the same episode of The Batman for the second time in a row she looks over at a tall, cylindrical oscillating fan in the corner of my living room. I haven’t noticed that she is looking because I am busy watching The Joker become a Vampire in this episode.
“Papa, who buy that?”
“Hmm”
“Papa”
“Ya.”
“PAPA”
“Mmm Hmm”
“Papa talk to me!”
“Yes Emma what is it?”
“Who buy that Papa?”
I look over and she is pointing at the fan. I didn’t really think about my answer because I remember when Vanessa and I bought it at a Wal-Mart the Summer before Emma was conceived. I didn’t want it, I liked the fan that I had, but it’s a great fan and actually does a good job of keeping the place at cool temp.
“Mama bought it Emma, like a long time ago.”
Emma's face looks confused. She tilts her head to one side and looks at me.
“Did Mama bring it over here?”
I laughed. Emma didn’t pay attention to my laughter, but I let out an amused chuckle as I answered..
“Yeah”
I realized that Emma has no concept of her mother and father being together. She has a Mama who she loves, and a Papa who she loves. She has a woman that I love who she has grown attached to and loves, and that woman has a child whom Emma loves. It has hit me that she will never know the idea of Mama And Papa, but just Mama here, and Papa there.
Emma has two homes, but when she is with me and she says “Papa lets go home now” I find myself asking “Where?” and she always answers “Home Papa to the red house”
My house is red. Vanessa’s is not. Emma associates home as home, and I am to know that she means my home when she is with me, and Vanessa is to know that her house is Emma’s home as well.
I remember my parents fighting. I remember objects thrown and tires slashed. I remember hatred and anger and the knowledge that my father is sleeping in the VW again because my mother kicked him out. I remember leaving Houston for Los Angeles with my father, and the plane trip back to Houston when my father’s pills and alcohol made him too tired to function.
I remember when Ma was hospitalized and Pop had to take care of us for a while. I remember all of it and more.
Emma and her question make me laugh because she’ll never have to know that. She’ll never want to be here or there because its “right” or “better”. She will just be because for whatever reason her mother and father have for not seeing each other at all except for every couple of months (the reasons are unimportant, but they are fact).
It might not be what anyone planned in the beginning but there is comfort that if I do it right, the idea of that will never hurt her like it hurt me for so long.
There are a number of standards we set for ourselves that I have found to be, in all honesty…
Bullshit.
Fuck love.
Fuck hate.
Fuck life.
Fuck death
Fuck me.
Fuck you too.
Fuck the idea that we meet and do a dance and drama and adhere to what was set before us. Some of us were not meant for the happy ending and white picket fence even though that is what our parents had.
Some of us were not meant for the shame and lies we were born into, and deserve better and should have it without the guilt of what we should have been.
It wont hurt Emma because we make it okay to be like this, and we wont hold our decisions over her head. Because the idea of “Woe is me, she doesn’t have her mother on a daily basis” and "I hate being a single parent" will play second to the idea that “Its time to learn and grow” and "I am me. I am special and important and there is no time to be sad when there is a life to live"
Emma has taught me many things in her 3 years on this planet. One of those things is to see what came before, and just keep going. She'll hurt so much when/if she finds out how much her Mother and Father hurt eachother.
She'll hopefully never have to adhere to the thought that she should remember any of it in order to allow her life to reach its destination.
“Who bought that?”
Because I don’t.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Civic Duty...
I'm on the 11th floor of the Los Angeles Superior Courts building waiting for my name to be called for Jury Duty.
I'm pretty sure I'm working on a strong case of The Swine Flu.
I heard that some people who hold Swine close to their heart are offended by the Flu being named after their diety of choice, they say those groups have opted to refer to this pandemic as the Mexican Flu.
Thats okay with me.
Zombie Out.
I'm pretty sure I'm working on a strong case of The Swine Flu.
I heard that some people who hold Swine close to their heart are offended by the Flu being named after their diety of choice, they say those groups have opted to refer to this pandemic as the Mexican Flu.
Thats okay with me.
Zombie Out.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Clever
I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. I’d venture to guess that I know more about the fact that I really don’t know most of what I should be an expert at. The things that I am versed in are far and few between and I’m almost positive (though Im sure I don’t know enough to say that I’m positive about it) that the things I do know are things no one should know at my age.
Twenty Fucking Seven.
Fuck this.
At this point should I really still be stumbles and pratfalls? I’m the father of a child that will be 3 in a month. Should I really be so unsure of what tomorrow has in store?
Jesus H.
I spent the better part of today cleaning my home. It was recently invaded by leeching family members who decided it was better to pay cheap rent (not for me, I’m drowning in bills) then to simply get a cheap apartment. What do I care right? I’m just the twenty something prick who can’t get it together.
It was nice however, because for the first time since I moved in I was able to cook for my daughter. The kitchen cleaned, the living room tidy (but with that slight messiness that comes with an almost 3 year old little woman with the energy of the sun, and the intelligence of a fucking brain surgeon) I served Emma spaghetti.
“Emma, do you want meat balls in your spaghetti?”
“Papa look at this!” ::throws ball::
“Good job honey, please clean that up now”
“Okay Papa”
“Emma do you want this spaghetti with meatballs or the one with mushrooms?”
“I don’t like that one Papa.”
“I understand my love, tell your father which one you want him to cook please”
“I want, I want Meatball Masgetty Papa.”
“You mean Spaghetti? Spa-Get-Eeee?”
“No Papa, listen. MA-SGET-EE.”
“I see.”
Her room is done. My room is done after I spent two weeks or so airing it out, because the smell of lazy bastard took about that long to clear out. Along with half a box of incense, a fan, and some scent-diffusers I managed to make it smell hospitable again.
My next project is Emma’s studio, where we will dedicate the dining room to arts and crafts. I’ll most likely line the walls with butcher paper and paint splatters. We’ll work on getting her an art easel. This is the room where she keeps her drums and her keyboard. Sometimes she drums and sings, or blows into a horn. Other times she just pushes a baby on a stroller.
I’m attempting a number of projects that were left abandoned like a derelict vehicle on the side of the highway out in the high desert. My life is a busted radiator. I was on the fast track to something and all of a sudden the fucking steam blew my hood wide open. The only option I had was to walk.
I still walk. I got lost. A diner off the main road sidetracked me. I got held back by my own fear and self degradation that I didn’t realize that all I needed to do was let my vehicle cool off, call Triple-A, and breath deep.
It’s hard walking alone like that sometimes. One tends to really wonder what the fuck brought them here. I did too much of that and almost hit a point all too familiar.
I almost forgot myself.
I once did that. I gave in to what I thought I needed to do. When things changed I was not ready to roll with the punches and I’ve got one hell of a glass jaw.
This time I managed to bob and weave but I’m against the ropes again. I’m looking for a way out and I’m trying to balance as best I can.
How do I mend a relationship with someone who spent 23 years convincing me I was a joke?
How do I spend almost 27 years of my life believing that they were right?
I’m up late right now. I’ve got a cup of coffee. I’m listening to an old play list that I put together a long time ago. I used to listen to it and hope that my life would be different. The songs reminded me of when Emma was born. They reminded me of the apartment she was born in. They made me feel happy and sad at the same time.
Now they are kind of funny, and they play me into a memory of myself on a pseudo date I was once on. I was incapable of looking my company in the eye. She was talking to me and I felt that she enjoyed my company, but all I could do was think about how damaged I was at that point. All I could do was my best to pretend that I was fine. I was so uncomfortable with myself that I was afraid if I looked her in the eye she would figure me out.
I don’t have that problem any more, but a funny thing happened today.
Emma got into my socket wrenches and drill bits.
I told her to put them back, they are not toys.
She listened.
10 minutes later the door to her room was closed. I opened it to find her look up and shooting her little fists behind her back.
Busted my love, who is so sneaky.
“Emma what do you have in your hands?”
::wide eyed half smile::
“Persephone show Papa what you’ve got”
“Papa I was fixing something”
(Emma has been watching me work on the house all weekend, and I want to smile at her so much but I am doing my best “stern father” impression. I feel for a moment like if I look her in the eye for too long she will see right through me, and know that I am too proud of her to be upset.)
"Emma, you’ve got something that is silver that is mine, so you’ll give that to me and not play with it again, the other thing is okay for you to play with, but I want you to show them to me. I am not upset."
“Here Papa.”
"Thank you Emma. Do it again and you’ll get a time out."
“Okaaaay Papaaaaaa…”
I think it worked. I think she saw me and respected that she was doing something I specifically told her not to do and that is why she hid what she took. I accept that this is how it goes, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if I play my roll as well as I should.
I wonder if one day she’ll think back and realize “Damn, my dad was a mess. Always lost in thought.”
I see through my mother like plastic wrap. I see through my father like the X-ray of a cancerous tumor. I remember when they were sentinels. I remember when they had weight and infallibility.
For now I’ll do my best impression of the man I should be, maybe I can do it long enough to convince Emma that I really am him but something tells me she’s too clever for that little trick.
Twenty Fucking Seven.
Fuck this.
At this point should I really still be stumbles and pratfalls? I’m the father of a child that will be 3 in a month. Should I really be so unsure of what tomorrow has in store?
Jesus H.
I spent the better part of today cleaning my home. It was recently invaded by leeching family members who decided it was better to pay cheap rent (not for me, I’m drowning in bills) then to simply get a cheap apartment. What do I care right? I’m just the twenty something prick who can’t get it together.
It was nice however, because for the first time since I moved in I was able to cook for my daughter. The kitchen cleaned, the living room tidy (but with that slight messiness that comes with an almost 3 year old little woman with the energy of the sun, and the intelligence of a fucking brain surgeon) I served Emma spaghetti.
“Emma, do you want meat balls in your spaghetti?”
“Papa look at this!” ::throws ball::
“Good job honey, please clean that up now”
“Okay Papa”
“Emma do you want this spaghetti with meatballs or the one with mushrooms?”
“I don’t like that one Papa.”
“I understand my love, tell your father which one you want him to cook please”
“I want, I want Meatball Masgetty Papa.”
“You mean Spaghetti? Spa-Get-Eeee?”
“No Papa, listen. MA-SGET-EE.”
“I see.”
Her room is done. My room is done after I spent two weeks or so airing it out, because the smell of lazy bastard took about that long to clear out. Along with half a box of incense, a fan, and some scent-diffusers I managed to make it smell hospitable again.
My next project is Emma’s studio, where we will dedicate the dining room to arts and crafts. I’ll most likely line the walls with butcher paper and paint splatters. We’ll work on getting her an art easel. This is the room where she keeps her drums and her keyboard. Sometimes she drums and sings, or blows into a horn. Other times she just pushes a baby on a stroller.
I’m attempting a number of projects that were left abandoned like a derelict vehicle on the side of the highway out in the high desert. My life is a busted radiator. I was on the fast track to something and all of a sudden the fucking steam blew my hood wide open. The only option I had was to walk.
I still walk. I got lost. A diner off the main road sidetracked me. I got held back by my own fear and self degradation that I didn’t realize that all I needed to do was let my vehicle cool off, call Triple-A, and breath deep.
It’s hard walking alone like that sometimes. One tends to really wonder what the fuck brought them here. I did too much of that and almost hit a point all too familiar.
I almost forgot myself.
I once did that. I gave in to what I thought I needed to do. When things changed I was not ready to roll with the punches and I’ve got one hell of a glass jaw.
This time I managed to bob and weave but I’m against the ropes again. I’m looking for a way out and I’m trying to balance as best I can.
How do I mend a relationship with someone who spent 23 years convincing me I was a joke?
How do I spend almost 27 years of my life believing that they were right?
I’m up late right now. I’ve got a cup of coffee. I’m listening to an old play list that I put together a long time ago. I used to listen to it and hope that my life would be different. The songs reminded me of when Emma was born. They reminded me of the apartment she was born in. They made me feel happy and sad at the same time.
Now they are kind of funny, and they play me into a memory of myself on a pseudo date I was once on. I was incapable of looking my company in the eye. She was talking to me and I felt that she enjoyed my company, but all I could do was think about how damaged I was at that point. All I could do was my best to pretend that I was fine. I was so uncomfortable with myself that I was afraid if I looked her in the eye she would figure me out.
I don’t have that problem any more, but a funny thing happened today.
Emma got into my socket wrenches and drill bits.
I told her to put them back, they are not toys.
She listened.
10 minutes later the door to her room was closed. I opened it to find her look up and shooting her little fists behind her back.
Busted my love, who is so sneaky.
“Emma what do you have in your hands?”
::wide eyed half smile::
“Persephone show Papa what you’ve got”
“Papa I was fixing something”
(Emma has been watching me work on the house all weekend, and I want to smile at her so much but I am doing my best “stern father” impression. I feel for a moment like if I look her in the eye for too long she will see right through me, and know that I am too proud of her to be upset.)
"Emma, you’ve got something that is silver that is mine, so you’ll give that to me and not play with it again, the other thing is okay for you to play with, but I want you to show them to me. I am not upset."
“Here Papa.”
"Thank you Emma. Do it again and you’ll get a time out."
“Okaaaay Papaaaaaa…”
I think it worked. I think she saw me and respected that she was doing something I specifically told her not to do and that is why she hid what she took. I accept that this is how it goes, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if I play my roll as well as I should.
I wonder if one day she’ll think back and realize “Damn, my dad was a mess. Always lost in thought.”
I see through my mother like plastic wrap. I see through my father like the X-ray of a cancerous tumor. I remember when they were sentinels. I remember when they had weight and infallibility.
For now I’ll do my best impression of the man I should be, maybe I can do it long enough to convince Emma that I really am him but something tells me she’s too clever for that little trick.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Bleh
Its me.
Im still going. Kind of.
I've been busy doing nothing with my life. That is a lot of us I think. Though, I dont know why that is exactly.
Im so frustrated. Im so far past the point of being bummed out its fucking ridiculous.
I told myself and other people that I would be way passed this point by now. I'd be better off somehow and it turns out I was only fooling myself.
I wrote a draft of many things only to erase it and replace those words with what you are reading now.
The irony.
Im still going. Kind of.
I've been busy doing nothing with my life. That is a lot of us I think. Though, I dont know why that is exactly.
Im so frustrated. Im so far past the point of being bummed out its fucking ridiculous.
I told myself and other people that I would be way passed this point by now. I'd be better off somehow and it turns out I was only fooling myself.
I wrote a draft of many things only to erase it and replace those words with what you are reading now.
The irony.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Gasp
I remember the first time I had the wind knocked out of me. I was no older than 5. It couldn't have been later than 1987. We lived in Rosemead and we had a nice big back yard. There was tons of room to play. There was an old swing set in the center of the back yard. I was running to reach up to grab what could only be described as two chains a couple of feet in length. At the end of these chains was a metal pipe. A bar.
I was running as fast as I could with my Thundercats Kite that my father must have purchased from the local 7-11. With this kite I could not only take on legions of Skeletor's army but half of the "Bad" Gremlins, one or two of the Foot Clan, and maybe if I was lucky enough I'd be able to kick the shit out of one of the Goulies. I hated those mother fuckers.
So, I was leaping gracefully with my kite, grabbing onto this pipe when one hand grabbed as hard as I could when the wonderful world of "Physics" came rushing at the back of my head. My grip was firm (This is what happens when you're a 5 1/2 year old Ninja, you understand) so firm that it snapped me parallel to the brown and green earth below me.
Now, I don't know if it was the shock of seeing for a moment my house, than the blue sky above me (oh look there goes my kite. Awesome.) and the sudden impact of the ground against my back that freaked me out. Maybe it was the stars that I saw, that I had never seen before. It might have been the strange sound I was making when my eyes started to tear and the tubes that the "Good Lord" had seen fit to fashion out of flesh and bone that got oxygen from the world outside of young William Joshua and into my body began flowing normally.
I dont know if it was any of that, which would normally be the case. Or, it should be the case but not for me.
I think it was the trip from the yard to my house that hurt the most. My mother was in the house. There were men in the driveway talking on their lunch. They were the ones who tore down the old Garage and put up a simple posts in the ground with a white roof over a concrete slab to replace it.
From the time I got to my feet to the time I got to the back door one of those men asked "Mijo are you okay?".
I couldnt speak so I just nodded. I felt silly.
I went inside and on the way I kept thinking that the only one in the world who could make this better was my mother.
When I found her she was smiling. She smiles a lot. She asked "William whats wrong?"
I blinked,
I was breathing again,
I was fine.
She didn't know I almost died. I could have fell apart into a million tiny pieces from that amazing fall or worse yet I could have never began to breathe again. Christ what if one of those old bastards had seen how good I was with my kite and decided to recruit me into the underground world of 5 year old featherweight kick boxing? What then Mom? What the fuck would you have done then?
I was stunned. She didnt do anything because she didnt know. I was hurt, I hurt myself. I was doing my thing, minding my own business and I somehow got up and did the only thing I knew to do and that was do something familiar. I went to her and I realized that I was okay. On my own and without my mother, who should have known EVERYTHING but knew nothing of her son in that moment.
I never told my mother what happened. It was my secret. Later when I poked my eye really hard I didn't tell her about that either. I rubbed it, and checked to see if my eye was still in my head. I thought it was but I couldn't be sure so I checked in the mirror. It was still there, if a little blurry.
When one of the old splinters from the garage that was now gone had gotten lodged into the palm of my hand I yanked it out. It stung, and it bled but I didnt tell her then either. I just kept going.
I never told her about the nightmares I began having when my parents divorced.
I didn't tell her that I knew why she and my father REALLY split up.
I never told her when I figured out that she was a fucking liar. I just kept going.
Innocence is a funny thing. It goes away eventually, but its an amazing thing to see in action when its pure.
I was sitting and watching a movie while my daughter slept next to me. I checked her PJs to make sure she hadn't wet herself. She had. So I grabbed her up, and told her "Honey wake up you forgot to tell Papa you have to potty remember?"
I got piss all over me. I plopped her down on the toilet. Told her to finish. I cleaned her up and changed her.
At no point was she ashamed, or did I get upset. Its what you do when you are teaching. Training. Getting someone to grow and learn. She wasn't ashamed because I wasn't upset with her. I just have to remind her and keep trying till she learns to get up and go.
I want her to come to me with this. Anything. Burns and cuts and bruises. Pains and aches and rashes.
All of it.
I'm afraid that one day she wont. The day she doesn't is the day that she begins to figure out that there are some things that she can handle on her own. Those scrapes that need band aides will one day give way to anger and embarrassment. Her pals will be friends who might be short lived or life long or lovers.
One day she'll handle the air leaving her body in gasping heaves till she has corrected what she did on her own.
What good will I be to her then?
When my mother kicked me out for the last time. When my older sister had already been gone for years after being kicked out. When I was gone and my little sister had left the next day leaving my mother alone it was like the day that I first had the wind knocked out of me. I had to work it out somehow on my own.
All of it.
I hope its a long time before Emma realizes it.
5 is a bit early I think.
I was running as fast as I could with my Thundercats Kite that my father must have purchased from the local 7-11. With this kite I could not only take on legions of Skeletor's army but half of the "Bad" Gremlins, one or two of the Foot Clan, and maybe if I was lucky enough I'd be able to kick the shit out of one of the Goulies. I hated those mother fuckers.
So, I was leaping gracefully with my kite, grabbing onto this pipe when one hand grabbed as hard as I could when the wonderful world of "Physics" came rushing at the back of my head. My grip was firm (This is what happens when you're a 5 1/2 year old Ninja, you understand) so firm that it snapped me parallel to the brown and green earth below me.
Now, I don't know if it was the shock of seeing for a moment my house, than the blue sky above me (oh look there goes my kite. Awesome.) and the sudden impact of the ground against my back that freaked me out. Maybe it was the stars that I saw, that I had never seen before. It might have been the strange sound I was making when my eyes started to tear and the tubes that the "Good Lord" had seen fit to fashion out of flesh and bone that got oxygen from the world outside of young William Joshua and into my body began flowing normally.
I dont know if it was any of that, which would normally be the case. Or, it should be the case but not for me.
I think it was the trip from the yard to my house that hurt the most. My mother was in the house. There were men in the driveway talking on their lunch. They were the ones who tore down the old Garage and put up a simple posts in the ground with a white roof over a concrete slab to replace it.
From the time I got to my feet to the time I got to the back door one of those men asked "Mijo are you okay?".
I couldnt speak so I just nodded. I felt silly.
I went inside and on the way I kept thinking that the only one in the world who could make this better was my mother.
When I found her she was smiling. She smiles a lot. She asked "William whats wrong?"
I blinked,
I was breathing again,
I was fine.
She didn't know I almost died. I could have fell apart into a million tiny pieces from that amazing fall or worse yet I could have never began to breathe again. Christ what if one of those old bastards had seen how good I was with my kite and decided to recruit me into the underground world of 5 year old featherweight kick boxing? What then Mom? What the fuck would you have done then?
I was stunned. She didnt do anything because she didnt know. I was hurt, I hurt myself. I was doing my thing, minding my own business and I somehow got up and did the only thing I knew to do and that was do something familiar. I went to her and I realized that I was okay. On my own and without my mother, who should have known EVERYTHING but knew nothing of her son in that moment.
I never told my mother what happened. It was my secret. Later when I poked my eye really hard I didn't tell her about that either. I rubbed it, and checked to see if my eye was still in my head. I thought it was but I couldn't be sure so I checked in the mirror. It was still there, if a little blurry.
When one of the old splinters from the garage that was now gone had gotten lodged into the palm of my hand I yanked it out. It stung, and it bled but I didnt tell her then either. I just kept going.
I never told her about the nightmares I began having when my parents divorced.
I didn't tell her that I knew why she and my father REALLY split up.
I never told her when I figured out that she was a fucking liar. I just kept going.
Innocence is a funny thing. It goes away eventually, but its an amazing thing to see in action when its pure.
I was sitting and watching a movie while my daughter slept next to me. I checked her PJs to make sure she hadn't wet herself. She had. So I grabbed her up, and told her "Honey wake up you forgot to tell Papa you have to potty remember?"
I got piss all over me. I plopped her down on the toilet. Told her to finish. I cleaned her up and changed her.
At no point was she ashamed, or did I get upset. Its what you do when you are teaching. Training. Getting someone to grow and learn. She wasn't ashamed because I wasn't upset with her. I just have to remind her and keep trying till she learns to get up and go.
I want her to come to me with this. Anything. Burns and cuts and bruises. Pains and aches and rashes.
All of it.
I'm afraid that one day she wont. The day she doesn't is the day that she begins to figure out that there are some things that she can handle on her own. Those scrapes that need band aides will one day give way to anger and embarrassment. Her pals will be friends who might be short lived or life long or lovers.
One day she'll handle the air leaving her body in gasping heaves till she has corrected what she did on her own.
What good will I be to her then?
When my mother kicked me out for the last time. When my older sister had already been gone for years after being kicked out. When I was gone and my little sister had left the next day leaving my mother alone it was like the day that I first had the wind knocked out of me. I had to work it out somehow on my own.
All of it.
I hope its a long time before Emma realizes it.
5 is a bit early I think.
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