February 12th, 2014

There are writers, real writers, real writers everywhere out there. These real writers pay real bills and eat real bread and do real things. There must be a way to go about becoming a real writer. But, you wouldn't want to really try because then you might really fail and plus you would draw lots of real criticism. It was so lonely on top of that mountain, Daddy, trying to secretly scatter your ashes to the wind through the fog. Why weren't you there? I had to bring Joshua. You promised you would. Do you remember? You promised, and what did you do then? Where did you go? You know, Daythea who lived with you in the place you went to, Daythea whom we laughed at, her mother died right after you. Think of that. This thing you did, to die, did you consider the cost of the funeral? When you came to, right before you died, you thought you were in Kentucky about to go to Walmart. I think perhaps that, THAT, is the thing that hurts the most. I only know you were my father because of the drinking and the irrepressible voice inside me that pushes on towards justice and completion. Also that my feelings are easily hurt and I am always wanting to belong and then getting bored with the belonging. You are why I left him and I guess I can thank you, though it's hard to see that even now after all this time. There is still sawdust everywhere and I can't see the purpose for all the cutting. Yet.