the strange planet inside my head
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being my father's daughter
the crabs have moved on to invade somebody else today *phew* thanks to a journal entry and a stint in the chat room. made me giggle.
****
gonna finish that quilt today if it kills me. the hardest parts are over, laying the sandwich out on the floor is a bun-buster for sure. it sure came out pretty; i surprise myself sometimes. in my head i know it's art, but sometimes its still a surprise.
when i say that to myself, that i'm an artist, i get the weirdest feeling inside, like i'm a poser or a fraud. i think part of that comes from my feelings about my dad... he was an artist. a painter. he was really good, too. the artist temperament was too much for him, i'm thinking since he drowned it in alcohol and ended up painting signs for a living. the only thing i have of my father is two cats he carved out of wood for my grandmother (they are stark and simple and awesome. they remind me that art doesnt have to be ornate to work) and a little enamel jar with some of his ashes in it, and i also have his discharge papers from the service. that's what i have from my father.
but that's not all i have. i also have his red hair, his long fingers and eye for color. i have his stubborness, his charm, his smile. i don't know what else i have of his because actually, i never knew him. the love i have for my father is still at the little girl level. sometimes i think i'm lucky that way, because at this point he can be the father i imagine him to be, with no real-life disappointments. he can be the giant he was to me when i was eight, the hero, the knight in shining armor, the first man i ever loved. a little girl can forget and forgive the years in between of shattered hopes.
for me, my father died when i was eight. i was eleven the last time i saw him; and in my thirties the last time i spoke with him, but he was dead long before that. i was able to speak with him with no bitterness; the father i talked to in my thirties was not the same father i had when i was eight. he was a stranger to me and that made me a little sad. i never got the answers i was looking far as far as why he did the things he did, but maybe that's just as well. that way, he can still be the father i dreamed of.
reality is he was a drunk, a prick, balding with a fat gut and a pathetic excuse of a father. but in my head, in my heart, he is the tall, athletic, tender man that loved me very much, and whom my mother loves and hates to this day. sometimes i think that's part of the dynamics of the relationship i have with my mother; after all, i am my father's daughter.
****
wow, where the hell did all THAT come from????
****
this bloggin thing (sounds like a digestive problem, doesnt it?) is cheaper than therapy.
****
one of tina's friends has been hanging out here quite often... poor kid, his parents are going through a divorce (he's the oldest of 6 boys can you say SHOOT ME PLEASE) and he's gotten into a little trouble here and there. nothing major, mostly a disagreement with an ex-girlfriend (these situations are so DRAMATIC when you are 17, arent they??) and i think he hangs out with my girls because they have their heads on straight. he says my house is cozy... of course, that earned him big brownie points LOL. hw was tina's first friend when we moved here, they've become like brother and sister and it's been good for both of them.
i know they miss their brother; still no news from that end but what can you do? he's a grown man and he makes his own decisions. i miss him terribly and i think about him every day; wondering how things got to this point (and knowing, yes, i know) and also knowing there's not a damned thing i can do about it. *sigh* it is what it is.
being a mother is a freaking tough gig, for sure. you don't realize it when you carry a baby, you might get an inkling when you push a bowling ball out your ass during labor, but i think it REALLY sinks in when they are teens and you realize you made mistakes they will never forgive you for (just like your parents did) and things happen that are beyond your control to make feel better.
i wonder if my dad felt that way. huh.
well, that's something to chew on.
****
gonna finish that quilt today if it kills me. the hardest parts are over, laying the sandwich out on the floor is a bun-buster for sure. it sure came out pretty; i surprise myself sometimes. in my head i know it's art, but sometimes its still a surprise.
when i say that to myself, that i'm an artist, i get the weirdest feeling inside, like i'm a poser or a fraud. i think part of that comes from my feelings about my dad... he was an artist. a painter. he was really good, too. the artist temperament was too much for him, i'm thinking since he drowned it in alcohol and ended up painting signs for a living. the only thing i have of my father is two cats he carved out of wood for my grandmother (they are stark and simple and awesome. they remind me that art doesnt have to be ornate to work) and a little enamel jar with some of his ashes in it, and i also have his discharge papers from the service. that's what i have from my father.
but that's not all i have. i also have his red hair, his long fingers and eye for color. i have his stubborness, his charm, his smile. i don't know what else i have of his because actually, i never knew him. the love i have for my father is still at the little girl level. sometimes i think i'm lucky that way, because at this point he can be the father i imagine him to be, with no real-life disappointments. he can be the giant he was to me when i was eight, the hero, the knight in shining armor, the first man i ever loved. a little girl can forget and forgive the years in between of shattered hopes.
for me, my father died when i was eight. i was eleven the last time i saw him; and in my thirties the last time i spoke with him, but he was dead long before that. i was able to speak with him with no bitterness; the father i talked to in my thirties was not the same father i had when i was eight. he was a stranger to me and that made me a little sad. i never got the answers i was looking far as far as why he did the things he did, but maybe that's just as well. that way, he can still be the father i dreamed of.
reality is he was a drunk, a prick, balding with a fat gut and a pathetic excuse of a father. but in my head, in my heart, he is the tall, athletic, tender man that loved me very much, and whom my mother loves and hates to this day. sometimes i think that's part of the dynamics of the relationship i have with my mother; after all, i am my father's daughter.
****
wow, where the hell did all THAT come from????
****
this bloggin thing (sounds like a digestive problem, doesnt it?) is cheaper than therapy.
****
one of tina's friends has been hanging out here quite often... poor kid, his parents are going through a divorce (he's the oldest of 6 boys can you say SHOOT ME PLEASE) and he's gotten into a little trouble here and there. nothing major, mostly a disagreement with an ex-girlfriend (these situations are so DRAMATIC when you are 17, arent they??) and i think he hangs out with my girls because they have their heads on straight. he says my house is cozy... of course, that earned him big brownie points LOL. hw was tina's first friend when we moved here, they've become like brother and sister and it's been good for both of them.
i know they miss their brother; still no news from that end but what can you do? he's a grown man and he makes his own decisions. i miss him terribly and i think about him every day; wondering how things got to this point (and knowing, yes, i know) and also knowing there's not a damned thing i can do about it. *sigh* it is what it is.
being a mother is a freaking tough gig, for sure. you don't realize it when you carry a baby, you might get an inkling when you push a bowling ball out your ass during labor, but i think it REALLY sinks in when they are teens and you realize you made mistakes they will never forgive you for (just like your parents did) and things happen that are beyond your control to make feel better.
i wonder if my dad felt that way. huh.
well, that's something to chew on.
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