June 9, 1980
We used to play this card game called "Spoons". If you're familiar with the game, cool. If not, it doesn't really matter you'll stil be able to follow this story. Any way, we used to play this game for HOURS.
Dad got up to go to the bathroom. We lived in a small 4 bedroom ranch. One of the bedrooms was my dad's office. The bathroom was off the hall which was off the kitchen where we were playing cards. Dad's usually short trip to the shitter would bring forth a chain of events that would change what I could have been and what I could have done with my life.
It's hard to say how long he was gone. Could have been 10 minutes, could have been an hour. Regardless, we didn't notice right away, we just kept playing cards. (I think this is why I always keep track of what and who is around me. I guess I figure if I don't something bad WILL happen--not really paranoia, more like observation)
We all seemed to notice he was gone a little too long at the same time. The search was on for the family bread winner. The father and the husband. Panic was thick. Mom found dad in the bathroom. Slumped over the toilet. Us kids couldn't see--the divider between the toilet and the door blocked the view.
"Nicky! Nicky!" my mom yelled repeatedly. No response. I think my sister called the ambulance. Now remember, this is all being recalled by a then 9 year old mind. But the accuracy isn't important. A neighbor lady came to stay with my sisters and I while my mom accompanied the medics to the hospital. They took him to Brentwood Ambulatory. A place that makes me shudder to this day every time I drive past it.
Dad had these cool "Cross pens" (I still have one) and I decided to make him a "get well" card with my oh so talented 9 year old hands. I found a piece of paper. Meticulously folded it in half and made a grade school "Hallmark". I took special care as to not mispell any words. I signed it and waited for my dad to return. After all, everyone was telling me "It's going to be OK."
Mom came home. Alone. She sat us all down on my sister's bed. In a calm, but teary voice, she told us that our daddy was dead. That's the last thing I can remember clearly. I became a 9 year old kid filled with the rage of a scorned adult. I crumbled up my get well card and threw it at one of the crucifixs' hanging on the wall.
"I HATE YOU!" I screamed at the effigy of my so-called savior. I lost God that night. At nine years old.
Something I've carried with me all my life is the memory of me stealing a piece of gum from the local store. Dad found out, and I got the belt for it. That night, I wished he was dead.
Three days later we were playing "Spoons."
If you haven't noticed, loss sucks. In my experience, loss is usually accompanied with some degree of guilt. I guess I tend to blame myself for things. My fault or not. Sometimes it's easier to FIND blame rather than figure out what really went wrong.
Early on in life I came to the conclusion that I just can't have nice things. And not in a material way, just nice things in general. I've decided to hide. Here, in the blogs. To sort out my thoughts. To find direction. To figure out where the hell I lost track of where I was going.
Running away? No. Just contemplating. Thinking. Planning.
I can flow words over the QWERTY keys of this computer. They come easy to me (usually). The same words I write, for some reason, I cannot translate into spoken word. I have volumes and volumes of writings compiled over the years that will probably never be read by anyone but me. Hell, I may never read them again. I'll just stuff them in my file cabnet along with old tax returns and kid's report cards.
So I'm hiding. Not from the world, but myself. I need to change. I need to change something, but I can't find the answer as to what.
I feel like everything around me is moving at such a speed that it is all a blur. I can see my hands clearly if I look at them, but I cannot focus beyond them. I can trace the lines of my palm, but can't read a street sign.
But, I can make out the symbol on that sign. It's definitely a "no u-turn". Isn't it always?
The death of my father was a huge turning point in my life. It carved me into who I am today.
Dad was a good guy. He worked a ton of jobs at the same time. Taught accoounting at John Carroll, Mathematics at Dyke college and Benedictine High school, Director of Metro General Hospital, and owner of a home based accounting business. In my adult life I have come to realize why he worked so much. So that his wife and family would be provided for. That work ethic of his has been passed down to me.
My parents raised us Catholic. OLD SCHOOL Catholic. In school, the pwer of God and faith were beat into our brains with a leather bound copy of the Bible. My views on te Bible differ greatly to those of when I was young.
Dad was goofy. Always sticking out his tongue, or giving someone (usualy my mom) the finger. He was intimidating too. 6'5" and 265lbs. People who didn't know him were afraid of him. I remember at one parent/teacher conference at St Barnabus he scared the sh*t out of a teacher that was picking on my sister. (she had a pretty good year after that)
Even with all the work he did, he always made time for us. Playing catch in the yard. Putting together jig saw puzzles. We'd write notes to each other, fold them into paper airplanes and sail them through the air.
No matter how busy his life was, he always had time for us.
Damn, Jim, you're awfully negative tonight!(is it still considered crazy to talkto yourself?)
Yeah, well quiet time does that to me. But it also makes me see things clearer. Vividly.
The cool half yellow glow of the street lamp is my company tonight. It makes the parked cars an the ice covered trees cast errie shadows across the ground.
Powerful silouhettes. Dead but living. I envy the trees. they have no emotions. They die in the fall and are reborn in the spring.
I envy the cars. Lifeless pieces of metal and plastic. Silent while their owners sleep. Roaring to life when the ignition turns.
I need to be reborn. I need to be alive.
But I'm not the only one. Someone else does too. Someone else needs to be alive, to be reborn in the spring. To have the ignition turned.
You. You do.
I'm alone every night, but not entirely. You're alone too. You're reading this.
So, I guess we're NOT alone....we're together.
Title sounds like a spooky ghost story. Well I guess it kind of is.
Like I said, glasses or no, I write in the dark. Puts a "serious" yang under my "comical" ying. This is my quiet time. Time to write, time to reflect. Time to try to fugure myself out.
But I don't recieve any input. It's quiet here. I don't hear any voices. I need voices.
Just one voice really.
A voice to tell me about IT'S day.
A voice to ask me how mine was.
A voice to help me unwind and relax.
A voice to guide me.
A voice to stop me from making unwise decisions.
A voice to lull me to sleep.
A voice to wake me up for work.
A voice to help me match my shirt to my pants.
A voice to comfort me.
A voice that will tell me it's proud of me.
A voice that laughs.
A voice that's always there.
A voice that says it loves me.
A voice that I can believe.
I kinda dig the fact that people read these. That way I don't have to talk. That's an ability I lack. Which I think is petty tragic in a way.
Maybe that's part of my problem. I over think things and I lose the words. I pick out the flaws in myself and exploit them, possibly on purpose, I don't know. I tend to move too fast. I stare at things. I stare THROUGH them. I don't see things for what they are.
I don't expect too much. Quite the opposite. I expect very little. Could be from being bullied in my youth, the loss of people close to me by the hand of death? My OWN private conversations wth the Grimm Reaper? The actions of what I sometimes percieve as a pus filled society? My own want for more without any significant gain? Other people sometimes taking advantage of my openness?
The path I'm taking. That's the most frustrating of all. It twists so much that I can't see six feet ahead of me, and every turn I conquer, I skin my knee. I sprain my ankle. I lose my leg.
It's definitely a gravel path. Very hard on the feet. I try to be independent and handle things on my own, but just once, I'd like to be carried around the next bend. Let me ride piggy back and just look at the trees. Let someone else wear out their shoes.
Why do I always write at night in a dark room? I know all the wives' tales about reading in the dark and the eventual need for glasses.
But darkness calls to me. Not in a bloodthirsty vampire way. Kind of a spiritual way. It's just quieter than any other time. Quiet helps me think. Though thought tends to make me dizzy.
Everything in the room is off. I pulled the battery out of the clock to silence that dreadful ticking. Errgh! I hate that noise. A ticking clock. Makes me think of time. And thoughts of time depress me. "Not much time left." "Time's running out." "Stop wasting your time." "there's no time for that." Negative thoughts, yes, but valid, true thoughts.
I think I'm on a schedule but I don't know it yet. What do I have planned for all this "time"?
Not much really. My life's plans are WAY off. I'm 36 years old. I'll turn 37 on June 20. I'm slowly creeping up on 40.
I'll be honest. I'm not anywhere near where I thought I'd be by now. I was always a dreamer. Now I'm finally waking up.
I'll tell you where I SHOULD have been...I should have been with the love of my life. I should have been 3 years away from retiring. (that was the origional dream) I am WAY the f*ck behind schedule people!! "Time's running out."
I was financially RUINED by divorce. (BTW she was supposed to be that "love of my life--set back in the schedule again) I lost the ability to trust people. I misplaced my ability to cope with things.
I crawled out of the financial abyss by working sometimes 18 hour days for months on end. This year is the first vacation I've taken in over 17 years. My retirement schedule has changed from 40 years old to 45, but it's not the financial reward I care about. It's the other parts of my "schedule".
Seeing my son grow up. Walking my daughter down the isle. Getting married to someone and growing old.
That damn tick of the clock is still in my head, even without the batteries. Like the "thump-thump" of the tell tale heart. "Not much time left."
I guess writing about my dad earlier today got me thinking about my own mortality. He was gone shortly after he turned 40.
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