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pjthompsonYeah—real cold for California. Here at the beach it's been consistently in the low 40s (Fahrenheit) at night for a couple of weeks now, 60s during the day. Ten or twenty degrees colder inland. I realize that's practically balmy if you're a resident of, say, Buffalo. But I don't live there. I live here—and it's damned cold for California.
And today it's raining. I usually love the rain. Usually it fills me with energy, gets my creative juices flowing. I know that's the opposite of most folks, but I've long ago accepted my contrariness. So.
Today is not a particularly high energy day for me. It's my dad's birthday. He's been dead eleven years now and today I miss him.
It's usually easier to have pure emotions for dead people—their inconvenient mortal selves aren't hanging around to remind you of all those things that got on your nerves, the past hurts inflicted on both sides, the complicated layers of emotions. When they're dead it's just the essence of what they were that walks the corridors of your heart, all the dross cleansed away, all the extenuating circumstances no longer relevant. You can love them, or hate them, without mitigation.
But I can truly say that even when my dad was alive, the emotions I had for him had a kind of purity. I loved him, he loved me—unconditionally. Beginning and end of story. Considering that many people go their whole lives not having that kind of relationship, I consider him a gift. And he continues to be a gift even after death. He was my Real Dad, although he contributed no DNA to making me.
I loved my read dad, too, the biological one—but way too many complications there, even after his death. Perhaps we'll be able to patch it up on the Other Side—if there is Another Side. Usually it's easier to think of the Other Side when I think about my dad, my Real Dad. Other times, I'm not so sure.
What Does It Mean
It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
with my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.
—Czeslaw Milosz
And today it's raining. I usually love the rain. Usually it fills me with energy, gets my creative juices flowing. I know that's the opposite of most folks, but I've long ago accepted my contrariness. So.
Today is not a particularly high energy day for me. It's my dad's birthday. He's been dead eleven years now and today I miss him.
It's usually easier to have pure emotions for dead people—their inconvenient mortal selves aren't hanging around to remind you of all those things that got on your nerves, the past hurts inflicted on both sides, the complicated layers of emotions. When they're dead it's just the essence of what they were that walks the corridors of your heart, all the dross cleansed away, all the extenuating circumstances no longer relevant. You can love them, or hate them, without mitigation.
But I can truly say that even when my dad was alive, the emotions I had for him had a kind of purity. I loved him, he loved me—unconditionally. Beginning and end of story. Considering that many people go their whole lives not having that kind of relationship, I consider him a gift. And he continues to be a gift even after death. He was my Real Dad, although he contributed no DNA to making me.
I loved my read dad, too, the biological one—but way too many complications there, even after his death. Perhaps we'll be able to patch it up on the Other Side—if there is Another Side. Usually it's easier to think of the Other Side when I think about my dad, my Real Dad. Other times, I'm not so sure.
What Does It Mean
It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
with my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.
—Czeslaw Milosz
no subject
Date: 2004-12-05 12:49 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing the Milosz poem.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-05 01:54 pm (UTC)Same here. I wonder sometimes if I would love it as much if I lived in Seattle. Then again, the one time I visited Seattle, I loved it.
I know how hard those anniversaries hit.
And so variable from year to year. Some years it's not happy-skippy time, but just part of the fabric of life. Other years it's very present.
Thank you for sharing the Milosz poem.
I have a serious poetry Jones. :-)
no subject
Date: 2004-12-05 05:03 pm (UTC)That's very sweet and moving. And you're right...many people don't have that. I have a good, solid, loving relationship with my husband. He's my best friend. But I don't even speak to my parents (in large part to protect my future children, and a bit to protect myself). I don't know what it's like to have a paternal figure whom I can count on for love and all that. It's one of those things that drives me (and thus many of my characters)...the need to find an embrace that makes one feel safe.
Most of my main characters start out more-or-less parentless. Either their parents are dead, far away, or there's been an argument and there's no communication. If there are parents around, they're often unpleasant and abusive. However, I do occasionally hand a character a father-figure (usually not their actual father in any way except possibly in-law) and all of that comes out of my own fantasy for it.
Mind you, as one of my more recent characters grows, she will have a strong father figure. She is, after all, the daughter of my current obsession of a character, so I look forward to exploring their deeply close relationship as time goes by in the books. Chances are it'll be everything I wish I had.
But *hugs* for you missing your dad. If I'd had someone like that, I'd miss him too.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-06 10:28 am (UTC)