My idea was to make this weekly, like I was a bootleg Carrie Bradshaw or something (I’m planning my shoe alter this very moment—in my head) but for some reason I couldn’t quite make it to the site to write. Now, this happens to me as a writer often and, a long time ago, I made peace with not forcing myself to write when I didn’t want to. I felt guilty for a long time because of those cult like people that will tell you that if you are able to not write, then maybe you shouldn’t. And then I realized a few things 1) I am able to not do a lot of things. I am able to not be nice. I am able to not call people back. I am able to not save money. All these things I could “not do” with ease. But I don’t want to. OH! The second thing I realized (I’m rusty–it’s been two weeks–totally on “train of thought” mode) is: I am always writing. I learned this after the first one, hence it being second. As soon as I let go of what other people said was the “right” way to do my own passion, I learned that I am literally (ha ha) always writing in my head. Walking down the street. Driving. Talking. Making love. Praying. Watching a movie (especially watching a movie or a play). Fighting. Eating…you name it, I’m writing during that time. Seriously. We all do. So if you are experiencing guilty pangs because somebody is telling how to do something that doesn’t fit your own productivity, embrace your inner rebel and go off into your own sunset to find yourself. Seriously. Life is too short.
Which brings me to the other reason for my absence. The anniversary of my father’s death is in 7 days. There are moments when I’m just doing and moments where I break into tears. Still. It feels like yesterday, as if no time has elapsed at all. Daily I force myself to remember his phone number and the way his house and car smelled. I got new frames for his picture (I’m into my own version of ancestor worship). I can run 3-4 miles easily now (I am grasping to the memory of riding my Pink Panther bike beside him while he jogged around his house in Southfield). I bought a 1971 Volkswagen Squareback (because it is an easy project car to learn and I want to remember my dad working on the line at Ford for forty years). I listen to snooze jazz a hell of a lot more than I ever did (because that was our driving music on Sundays). I have been waiting for my father’s ghost to come to me (I wrote that before) and then I realized that it already has. It is in everything I do. And while that is pretty cool, in a sense, it is not enough right now. At least I don’t let it be enough. I want to call him. To hear his voice. To give him my kids to bounce on his knee. To dance with him at my wedding. To retreat to his house when life is too much. To take him to Lake Como, Italy so he can see beauty. There isn’t enough minutes in life to waste. There are so many things I wish I could’ve said or asked but those take a side burner to me wishing that I could trade any number of the things in my life for him to come back. I play that game with myself often. I walk past things and make a deal with God that I will gladly give up this _____________ if my dad could come back. And I would. But it’s a lost cause. People don’t come back from the dead. But if you’re lucky, you never let them go and disappear there. For the anniversary, I’ll be getting my dad’s hand tattooed on me. He would’ve probably thought it kind of crazy but he knows that I am kind of crazy. He paid for my first tattoo anyway. And Kerry’s too! Those memories come back to me like an Olympic sprinter sometimes. Anyways, I was going to thank you for reading this rambling thought on mortality of parents but then I realized it’s my blog and you’re here because you want to be.
The hip hop theater bit is delayed still. It’s a big thing for me to talk about the state of theater now because it’s a very careful thing I have to express. It’s not a damnation but it’s a disappointment that is almost life changing (but then I go read an Aisha Rahman or Clifford Odett’s play and I’m kind of okay again).
Never fear, I will never be gone for long. But if you could, and you believe (by that I mean that sort of situation that happens in the JM Barrie book “Peter Pan” where it says something about when babies laugh for the first time, fairies are born) please send a nice prayer to my dad Larry Ray Robinson, on March 31st. That’s where I’ll be.
Tweet1 Comment
RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URL
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.
Ok this is ridiculous- i was away for some time too and not writing- you reaqd the blog. I, Jacquetta Szathmari nee Brooks AKA webstar AKA Armed Comedy Princess AKA J Pough challenge you to a write off.
Conditions
Each person must post each day a minimum of 3 cohesive paragraphs ona single and distinct topic. No rambling, no stream of consciousness, no “i don’t knwo what to write so let me tell you about…. oh and no excuses.
We go on until someone folds. The loser must- well we will half to thing of something. Do you accept?
I am ready.
J
Comment by Webstar — April 2, 2006 @ 10:31 pm