"Don't know where I'm going I just keep on rowing
I just keep on pulling, gotta row
Don't know where I'm going I just keep on rowing
I just keep on pulling, gotta row
Moving is breathing and breathing is life
Stopping is dying
You'll be alright
Life is a hammer waiting to drop
Adrift in the shallows and the rowing won't stop"
("Rowing", Soundgarden)
"He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's gone. He's not coming back. He's dead. No more visits. No more smiles. No more chuckles. He's dead. Dad's dead. Dad's dead. Dad's dead."
That's the shit that goes through my head a few times a day for the last two weeks. It's like a littany, a chant of sorts, but a silent one. It's not designed to steel me against a tide of fear or sadness the way the prayers of the faithful are intended. This invocation is quite the opposite, it's meant to open a floodgate of emotion, to dive right into the swell and let myself drown a little. But the congregation in my head remains unresponsive. So I keep working. I keep playing. I keep vacuuming and dusting and fixing things around the house.
I knew long before Dad died that it would not be as earthshaking for me as my mother's death some 20 years ago. I was prepared this time. Our relationship was different. It would not be a surprise. I understand mortality in a way I didn't at 21. But I didn't know what it would or wouldn't feel like exactly.
"He's dead. He's gone. He's dead. You're an 'orphan' now, right? Isn't that what that word means? Does that even mean anything when you're 41 or does it only apply to young children? He's dead. That's all it really means. He's dead and he's gone and he's not coming back."
People keep asking how my family is doing. I guess I appear to be doing fine. Am I doing fine? I guess I'm doing fine. I'm at work. I'm back to my routine, mostly, except in that I'm in an odd headspace I can't seem to punch my way out of. I'm not sure I want to. I do, I do want to. I'm just not sure how to. I'm listless. Mostly I want solitude, to lose myself in video games or Netflix, or some quiet time with Liza-Ann and Olivia. There is a comfort in Liza-Ann's presence, even when we're really not up to much. Olivia made me laugh out loud yesterday. "I heard a rumor...", I said. "... from a girl named 'Mom'?", she replied with an impish grin. It was a momentary reprieve. It was catching your breath between strokes of the oars. It is the immeasurable power that children have. It is a reminder of something Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, about how life looks only forward, and so must we. The day after Mom died was sunny. The day after Dad died was also clear.
"Gone. Dead. No more conversations. Did you say all you needed? No more chances. Gone."
Usually when I sit down to write, it's because I have something I feel is worth sharing. Not so today. There is no great moral lesson to be found, or even any useful advice. That wasn't how I started out writing either. Years ago, when I sat down to write, it was because I 'needed to exorcise the demons'. Writing back then was about my own personal catharsis. I guess today is a relapse back to that, driven by a need to get what's in my head out.
I wonder sometimes if half of what I wrote back then even needed to see the light of day, or if I'd have been better for typing it and then never hitting a publish button. But I don't regret what I wrote. Indeed, I regret none of it. I regret accidentally deleting some of one of my blogs along the way, or losing track of a few obscure entries. Sometimes I consider editing and reposting long lost entries. I still have most of my previous blogs, stashed away on a backup disc, waiting to either rise again or be forgotten and lost.
I knew long before Dad died that it would not be as earthshaking for me as my mother's death some 20 years ago. I was prepared this time. Our relationship was different. It would not be a surprise. I understand mortality in a way I didn't at 21. But I didn't know what it would or wouldn't feel like exactly.
"He's dead. He's gone. He's dead. You're an 'orphan' now, right? Isn't that what that word means? Does that even mean anything when you're 41 or does it only apply to young children? He's dead. That's all it really means. He's dead and he's gone and he's not coming back."
People keep asking how my family is doing. I guess I appear to be doing fine. Am I doing fine? I guess I'm doing fine. I'm at work. I'm back to my routine, mostly, except in that I'm in an odd headspace I can't seem to punch my way out of. I'm not sure I want to. I do, I do want to. I'm just not sure how to. I'm listless. Mostly I want solitude, to lose myself in video games or Netflix, or some quiet time with Liza-Ann and Olivia. There is a comfort in Liza-Ann's presence, even when we're really not up to much. Olivia made me laugh out loud yesterday. "I heard a rumor...", I said. "... from a girl named 'Mom'?", she replied with an impish grin. It was a momentary reprieve. It was catching your breath between strokes of the oars. It is the immeasurable power that children have. It is a reminder of something Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, about how life looks only forward, and so must we. The day after Mom died was sunny. The day after Dad died was also clear.
"Gone. Dead. No more conversations. Did you say all you needed? No more chances. Gone."
Usually when I sit down to write, it's because I have something I feel is worth sharing. Not so today. There is no great moral lesson to be found, or even any useful advice. That wasn't how I started out writing either. Years ago, when I sat down to write, it was because I 'needed to exorcise the demons'. Writing back then was about my own personal catharsis. I guess today is a relapse back to that, driven by a need to get what's in my head out.
I wonder sometimes if half of what I wrote back then even needed to see the light of day, or if I'd have been better for typing it and then never hitting a publish button. But I don't regret what I wrote. Indeed, I regret none of it. I regret accidentally deleting some of one of my blogs along the way, or losing track of a few obscure entries. Sometimes I consider editing and reposting long lost entries. I still have most of my previous blogs, stashed away on a backup disc, waiting to either rise again or be forgotten and lost.
As always, I am unashamed of who I am and how I feel. I made peace with myself long ago. Others should be so fortunate. If ever there was one gift, one thought I could teach others, one worthy of sharing above all other lessons, it would be that: make peace with yourself and stop judging. The war for your own soul takes too heavy a toll.
"Dead. Dead. Dead. Done. Over. Gone. Dead."
Nowadays, I don't always feel the need to dig so deep as I did back then. My heart no longer dwells unnecessarily in past unpleasantries, but instead lives in the contentment that comes from a happy life I've made for myself.
I have an awesome life.
I count and appreciate my blessings.
But I find myself wondering lately if, before I move on, perhaps one more short visit to the dark well is required, one more uncorking of an old, angry bottle, before past is past. Perhaps. But then, perhaps not. That water vessel has a hole in it, and success is the sweetest revenge. I don't know there's anything I could say my brother hasn't already.
I'm not satisfied with feeling nothing. Despite all I've written in the past few weeks - much of it with blurry eyes - I still feel as though something is unfinished. I feel stuck. I don't feel the pain, but I don't feel the happiness again either. Most of the time I feel... nothing.
And nothing is no way to feel.
"He's just... gone."
"Dead. Dead. Dead. Done. Over. Gone. Dead."
Nowadays, I don't always feel the need to dig so deep as I did back then. My heart no longer dwells unnecessarily in past unpleasantries, but instead lives in the contentment that comes from a happy life I've made for myself.
I have an awesome life.
I count and appreciate my blessings.
But I find myself wondering lately if, before I move on, perhaps one more short visit to the dark well is required, one more uncorking of an old, angry bottle, before past is past. Perhaps. But then, perhaps not. That water vessel has a hole in it, and success is the sweetest revenge. I don't know there's anything I could say my brother hasn't already.
I'm not satisfied with feeling nothing. Despite all I've written in the past few weeks - much of it with blurry eyes - I still feel as though something is unfinished. I feel stuck. I don't feel the pain, but I don't feel the happiness again either. Most of the time I feel... nothing.
And nothing is no way to feel.
"He's just... gone."
"Rowing is bleeding and bleeding is breathing
Breathing is feeling, burning, and freezing
Keep getting dirty but I started out clean
I keep on rowing, I keep on rowing
I keep on pulling, I keep on pulling
I keep on rowing, I keep on rowing"
Breathing is feeling, burning, and freezing
Keep getting dirty but I started out clean
I keep on rowing, I keep on rowing
I keep on pulling, I keep on pulling
I keep on rowing, I keep on rowing"
("Rowing", Soundgarden)
