Of my father

Of my father, who passed away two years ago, I remember very little in regards to his physical attributes. My older brother is a very close mirror image, and my son's curly hair is a vague reminder. Of my father, I mostly remember temperaments, and moods; a lack of temper and mood is probably more accurate. Can't recall a raised voice, or a moment where his words were tinged with a negative infliction. His lack of excitability made him seem perpetually aloof. Overall, I enjoyed his company. As a loquacious child, I liked not having to compete for air-space. Our dealings were simple. I prattled, and he listened patiently, without interruptions.

He seemed to accept that I was going to do what I wanted to do. Not in disobedient way, but still in my own way. Whether that meant that he got barrettes in his hair, or that he would be eating flowers for dinner, it didn't matter. There was a level of acceptance in our relationship that I am just starting to appreciate 20 plus years later. My mother alternated between being a doting playmate, indulging my every whim and a petty dictator, who would not accept even the appearance of defiance. She had been blessed with a formidable will of her own. But still, she owned my heart. I adored her. Though unpredictable, she was beautiful, and vibrant, and the strong, silent type of a man just couldn't compete with that. No one could.

While I appreciated that my father let me eat ice cream for dinner, his smooth, melodic sense of unwavering sameness did not interest me. For the the last two years, I have been joking about developing daddy issues to commiserate his untimely passing, but it seems I've always had them. I'm starting to realize to the women in my life are my emotional anchors and that my emotional veneer is hard and macho despite the frou-frou shell. It's as though I'm an emotional drag queen, acting the part of "woman". It's convincing in the right light but some times my cues are off; especially when dealing with the opposite sex.

After I left Jamaica, my father and I rarely spoke. There was no animosity or malice, just a general air of indifference. I simply didn't think about him, and assumed that with him the sentiment was the same. After his death, I learned differently. Now, I suspect that he had remained distant because he had been hurt that my mother had taken me away. When we had waved goodbye at the airport twenty years ago, I had asked him not to leave until my flight took off. Despite the four hour delay, he had waited patiently in terminal, where I could see him through huge glass window.

I don't remember whether he said I love you that day. But now his actions ring loudly in my ears. Which makes me rethink my approach to loving, and acceptance. Or maybe my approach to accepting love.

Universal Discrepancies

I gave up coffee for lent in a characteristic fit of self-denial. In return, I had hoped for a surge of positive energy, a karmic pat on the back for a job well done. Instead, I got bronchitis, had a severe asthma flare up for the first time in seven years, followed by the flu and strep throat; it would have been a nice time to have health insurance. Since I hadn't been seriously ill in almost two years, I accepted that I had some of that coming.

But the spell of unemployment coupled with the foreboding letter from the IRS complaining that they found a discrepancy in my 2008 return? By time I found out that I had an even larger tax liability for 2009 (since apparently I'm required to report ALL the money I earned), I didn't really care about my rent increase, my malfunctioning computer or the engine light situation in my ride. I had already reached my overkill threshold and was still reasonable calm. Yeah, yeah, whatever, life is hard, gotcha. *wink* But then a family member had a potentially fatal medical emergency, and my control faltered. I began fantasizing about flipping the bird to the universe and many of its inhabitants.

It was like my friend's complaint about the movie "Precious". It simply was just too much. I just wanted tune it all out, which led to my spending a lot of time watching Looney Tunes, bonding with my kindred loser Wile E. Coyote.

I admit that I have no "middle". These circumstances reminded me that there is seldom balance in my life. My cup runneth over or I choketh on a cupful of dust. All the same, even with the delayed karmic gratification, I am apt to believe that small acts of self-denial are good for for me, good for everyone in general. Suffering is an inevitable part of life, so maybe if you pick your torment it is easier to bare than the pain inflicted on you by the unseen hand. But the hand is essentially the house in Vegas. It sees all, it knows all, and no matter how clever or lucky you think you are, it usually wins.

PBS ran a documentary on the life of Buddha last week. I have a philosophical crush of Buddhism; I associate it with a yummy, free-spirited, almost bohemian form of self-denial. Then the specter of "moderation" crept into the program, one of Siddhartha's first lessons learned during his six year long journey towards enlightenment. The universe seems really hung up on this principle, so begrudgingly, I embrace this assignment.

Still I wonder, what will I do with balance if I actually bother to find it? And where will I even put it? Perhaps on the mantle of a consistently organized, productive, and fulfilling life. BlaHhh! I'd rather choketh on dust.