ELO is playing Telephone Line and I am trying to figure out how I tore the tablecloth because it is far less disturbing than trying to figure out answers to questions that can’t be determined without help.
Intermixed with the mulling over the moments and contemplation I have a half written letter explaining that you will never motivate me with fear or by trying to upset me.
At best you’ll annoy me and at worst I’ll do the exact opposite of what you want me to do. Better to be straight and tell me what it is you are thinking and what you want.
Do that and I can promise I’ll do my best to come through or I’ll let you know why it can’t be.
Someone took a different road with me and now I am trying very hard to do the classic male compartmentalization thing.
But the truth is I am ready to dial the phone and demand answers so that I know what direction I need to point myself in.
There is a distant echo in my head whose voice I recognize as being my father’s and part of me wonders if maybe he has found a way to bridge the gap between there and here.
Can’t say for certain, it is a question of faith.
I look at our hands in the picture above and though I recognize dad’s it is not really how I think of his hands because it is clear to me this is what his hand looked like when cancer and the rest of the illnesses were finally having their way.
But I remember grabbing his hand that night and telling him to squeeze mine if the pain was too much because he couldn’t handle the medicine.
I remember his grip hurting mine and not saying anything because the pain was inconsequential compared to what he was dealing with and I knew I would miss his being able to do that.
I knew that even though it felt inconceivable that a day would come where we couldn’t speak because the telephone lines don’t work between there and here it was important to be in that moment.
It is still surreal to think he is gone and that the aforementioned but intentionally not described situation can’t be shared with him.
He and I talked about it quite a bit and I would ask his advice if I could but I can’t so I hear the echo.
“If they choose to go that route, fuck ’em. It is their mistake. No reason to worry about it now, it hasn’t happened and it might not.”
I am doing my best to follow his advice, but it is not easy.
It is kind of funny to me because more than one person has told me recently about how easy going and relaxed I am about things.
That is not to say there isn’t truth to that, because there are quite a few things that you will never hear me complain about because I don’t care.
They are inconsequential to me and I can shrug them off with ease, but there are those few.
Those few that chap my hide and chafe my skin with the sort of irritation I can’t quite ignore. Sure I can set it aside for a while but it comes back and demands my attention.
And that sets off a chain of things and the intensity of my focus makes it more of a challenge to push it all aside, though I am certainly better at it now than I once was.
Sometimes I see signs of it in my kids and I wonder how to best guide them with some of this because if you channel that part of our personality in the right way it can be a huge asset instead of a pain-in-the-ass.
Posted and published all over and wondered if I succeeded in creating something that is described as significant and important or if they are just words without meaning.
Was told by another that I ought to not question my faith in my writing and recognize the gift that was given.
I smiled and said I appreciate the gift and pointed out I haven’t taken it for granted and have spent decades practicing so that I can polish and improve the gems that I hope I put out.
Some days I am certain of the quality and some days I am certain of the lack.
Most days I figure it is something that falls in between.
I guess it all comes back to a question of faith.