Had a talk with my Dad today

 

It wasn't the heartfelt, cathartic Hallmark moment of reconciliation that I may have hoped for. One always wants things to go like they do in the movies, with tear-jerking orchestration and lost puppies  finding their way home to grateful, open arms. It was more like a call from an old high school football coach, several years after graduation, trying to persuade his old student to pickup the pigskin again. 

"Don't waste your talent, son. Why are you pushing a mop at the 7-11 when you got that golden arm? Whaddaya say, you and I meet down at the field? We can work on some plays. Come on!"

OK, it was less of a gritty "Rocky, get your ass in training" kind of call and more like an evening telemarketer's sales pitch for the You Be A Writer, Dammit Association. I have to give him credit for staying on topic. Try as I might, I couldn't really engage him much on any other avenue of discourse that didn't get snapped back to the framework of the message. Not quite a "Press one for English, two for Spanish" limited options menu, but not exactly like a live operator, either.

I suppose that's the second of these type of calls I've had in the last couple days. My mom hammered home the same idea during our lengthy conversation a couple of days ago. The difference is that she spent far more time indulging my pathetic rambling and really does try to engage with me, despite the draining effect that my negativity has on other humans. We do also share some common thoughts on the subject of my Dad.

I always get an bit of anxiety when I hear my father's voice. Too much nervous tension exists between us. I was not the ideal son. He was not the ideal father. No amount of revisionism can paint a different past than the one we had. I'm sure we both decided long ago that it was best to not maintain an aura of hostility, but I am not quite able to edit our story to the point where I can convince myself that my memories of him are fond ones. Although bridges were built, I feel we are both standing on opposite sides, very hesitant to step out onto them and actually meet in the middle.

He may see it differently. That is fine. I know I was not a planned conception. Having grown up mostly with my mom, I tend to believe her side of things. "You must have put holes in the condom," was his reaction as she remembered it, to news of my imminent appearance into the world. I tend to believe her because, like me, she is a master grudge keeper and storer-up of evidence to support and sustain those grudges over the years. To her credit, she is never one to be fooled twice.

I'm not mad. I'm not really afraid anymore, either. The authority figures in my life have turned into sideline coaches since I don't have the threat of punishment hanging over my head. "You be a writer! Or I'll...." You'll what? Be disappointed in me? Welcome to the club. I'm disappointed, too. In me, in you, in life and the whole rotten ball of it. I'm sorry for that. But being sorry about it doesn't make it less true.

I may continue to write, because I can't seem to shut up. I just probably won't write anything palatable for general readers. My perspective is highly introverted and distorted. Why would I expect to find an audience? No, I will write because it is in my nature, but it won't be the great American novel. Just as a little scrub oak isn't going to grow into a majestic redwood, no matter how much cajoling it receives from the forest community. I'm no Vonnegut, Orwell or Faulkner, though I may, in actual fact, be a Golding.

I tend to lack, or refuse to regularly employ, some basic writing skills.  For one, I prefer to use incomplete sentences. They represent my thought process. Incomplete. And grammar, well, I look at that as free form expressionism, to be utilized as I see fit on any given occasion. Staying on topic is another area of concern. As much as I might want to keep the train on the tracks, I find the side tracks to be unavoidable and more interesting than sticking to the rigid, point A to point B, story structure. Some of my errors are intentional, others I am blissfully ignorant of or simply do not give a damn about.

Then there is the problem of my audience. If I'm at home alone dancing in front of a mirror, that is embarrassing enough. Some thoughts never even leave my head. When I contemplate who might read something I've written, and their reaction or non-reaction, I get all stifled and verbally constipated. Am I writing for the Queen? Is someone's grandma going to run across this? I dread the mental judgements of others, so I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about how not to offend any living creature. I guess that's not so apparent from the earlier part of this post where I casually and callously caricaturized my parents with my blunt, reductive descriptions. (Oops, did that make it to the final draft?)

Maybe if I had a gun to my head and was given a list of things to write about, and a specific set of guidelines to adhere to, I could manage to avoid getting a shot for a while. But I suspect my insidious inner rebel would find a way to write with such an antagonistic tone as to be insubordinate or would just flat out refuse to write anything. Either way I'd get the bullet. Just shoot me now and we can avoid all the paperwork.

Finally, there's the issue of steam. I run out of it. Like now. I'm tired and I feel like quitting. So, I will. And the next time I write it will be on a different topic. Well, hopefully. But like the majority of things in our throw away culture, I will not revisit this little scrap of writing. Like toilet paper, it is single use only. And not some Smithsonian Institute, George Washington wiped his ass with this, kind of toilet paper. Just regular old toilet paper. Maybe two-ply, if I'm feeling generous.