a few days ago..
when was it?
Last week: Tuesday, yeah?
i’d been wanting to call my parents
but i’d been traveling, running around too much
so
with a moment of Peace (spent the day at Harbin)
i settled in to call my dad back
(i’d called my mother the day before
and thanked her for the great army/surplus jacket thing: pockets galore for when i was wearing pants with none: it come in very handy on the trip)
but i’d remembered i wanted to thank my dad for something
she said she’d tell him to call when he got back from the Pacer’s Game…
but she forgot
and he ended up calling me while i was on the phone with someone else
or… emailing?
something, it wasn’t long
but there it was
so i called him back
and he was very sleepy
and i told him about the trip
— talked about the conversation i had with Jim
where Jim was so frustrated that every time he caught him self from a side glance in a window
he would see his father…
and all his family said he was the most like his father..
and i was telling him
‘ there’s no time for hate ‘
gotta accept the papa, yeah..
So i’m talking with my dad on the phone
and i tell him about how similar we are
and how thankful i was that he gave me that Fisherman Watch
(with hook sharpener, compass, thermometer, carabineer, analogue and digital time, plus a red LED)
he commiserated with me about the throwing up in the airplane over the Nazca lines
saying that happened to him really easily..
then i mentioned my camera got stolen
and he fell somber
and said
“yeah, you get stuff stolen from you all the time.. like that time you got pick-pocketed in France…”
somewhere in my mind
there was a little voice begging him not to say that
– when i was 17 and lived in England on Foreign Exchange
my parents sent me about $200 a month… something like that
the first family i lived with took us down to stay at their friend’s place in Paris for two weeks..
— the money disappeared in an instant!
how could it not?
Paris!
17 year old!
… however, it did not disappear in the Metro
someone opening my bag and digging out my wallet
— which is what i told my father… coz he was always lecturing me about keeping my wallet on me and not in a coat pocket or bag or something
so i was playing my manipulative disrespectful teen-age self and playing into his idea of how ignorant i was to extort more money out of him
my bad
but it was his lie that took me to england anyway
(blah blah blah, cycles of abuse, justified and perpetuated)
i answered just then
glossing over it
‘yeah…’
but gave myself a second chance:
i could continue this lie i had been telling for… Ten Years
(not continually… but believed)
Or…
i could break it and tell him the truth
it was a deliberation of about 4 seconds
and i came out with it
as clearly and calmly as possible
coloring my voice with Humility for him to hear
but he didn’t…
just like when i told him i was gay
— he knew already (which is why he brought it up, somehow)
but he made a big show about how i was such a bad person
always a liar and manipulator
how i’ve caused so much ill-will and hurt in the world
how i blame everyone else for my problems
(and at this point he was projecting all over the place)
and i repeated, calmly and clearly
over and over
how, Yes, i had done those things
and Yes, that’s who i was
and, Thankfully, i have grown.
he didn’t want to hear it
the hurt and misery in his voice was palpable
and though the conversation went on a bit after that
and we rushed “i love you”s at eachother (or did we?)
i got off the phone feeling terrible.
well
really
the terrible took a little time to set in.
the wine
reading Anne Carson’s “Autobiography of Red” — which i had just gotten back from someone i’d lent it too three or four years ago…
Leo being drunk
ohhhh
blame blame blame
i hated my father for making me feel so bad—
for not forgiving me
— i hated Leo for falling asleep and not admitting he was falling asleep
for pretending he was paying attention
when really he had no idea what i was talking about, what i was reading for him
though he told me to keep on reading
he wasn’t hearing it
he was wasting my time
Fuckers.
Yeah
my lover and my hater
my father and my friends
the next day i was pissy about it all day
i felt terrible
angry
sad
frustrated..
i guess this was my “pain body” coming alive
no one brings it out like daddy.
but we did a pretty equal job of abusing eachother, really…
which is still one of the amazing things about my relation ship with Leo:
it is SO RARE for him to ever get in a fight with me
oh sure
i’ll get pissed off at him
and freak out
and complain
and sulk
and hide
but he just takes it..
however
he loves to bait me
to say things he knows will bother me
to do things that pisses me off, just to see me get riled up
— he loves it
and i’m not making it up
it’s part of how he makes his fun
… which is also my father’s method
though Leo is whittier…
having been trained in NYC
(laughs)
however
i don’t play that game well
never have
the more antagonized i get
the more mean and hurtful i get
til i forget it’s a game
and i just start fighting: Enemy.
i’ve still got so much to learn!
” i want to be someone else or i’ll Explode! ”
do we ever change?
is there any way out of this?
into it? through it?
What i wrote last night?
Venting.
i don’t like Venting.
Venting
like Farting
— there’s some digestive problems
(accepting and being nourished by the world, and separating out the shit)
somewhere the chemistry is off
fermentation occurs in the belly
and a noxious by-product is given off
judgement
defensiveness
fear
anger
Driving with Jim and Gene
they go 90+MpH the whole time
and violently hate everyone on the road for purposely slowing them down
— they take everything personally
and it feels like i’m trapped in a war when i’m with them..
yet they say
” don’t take it so seriously:
we’re just Venting ”
well don’t pollute my reality with that Angst!
Fuck!
but after i finished writing that long bit last night
Leo had prepared dinner
and i went out to eat with him
at ease
calm
peaceful
i told him that writing was akin to some sort of Excrement..
as i’ve almost always viewed Art:
not being able to stomach the whole meal (life)
our bodies (souls, psyche)
comes up with some way to process what we cannot accept
the process is wonderful for the Artist, of course
it allows us to feel the pain, the discomfort
and make a pearl out of it
instead of just being ripped up in side by it.
so
after dinner
i curled up with Leo on the bed
and tucked him in
kissing the back of his neck
so happy to be with him
so happy for dinner
so loving
so Thankful
over and over again
i gotta write all the time
Journal.
silly.
Journal.
i feel like i should write something else that’s more fun for people to read
not just sifting through my chicken-entrails to find the gems hidden in there
hopefully someday i’ll learn.
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