Father Might Actually Know Best… After All

I am radiant today.  Don’t ask me what the recipe is… if I knew, I’d whip it up and serve it every day.  All I know is that I feel energetic and flirtatious and generous and as a result, I see the world around me ignite in smiles and kindness with a gluttonous side of sass.  One good thing about not being engaged or married= when I flirt, people take me much more seriously.  I like that.  I was so excited to come see Damon at Pizzaiolo today, since I didn’t make it yesterday.  I even put on seductive eye make up just so I could bat my eyelashes with extra feist.  In my mind, all this seemed perfectly natural… but as I confess it on the page, I imagine (Woops, Damon just came and collected my empty little fancy cup and saucer… I hope he didn’t read over my shoulder…Or maybe I hope he did… but a tremor of mortification just rattled my figurative windows.)  Ahem… I suddenly felt immature and afraid you were judging me, thinking, “Crushes are so grade school.  Don’t you have better things to do than seduce?”  But, no… Not really.  Not in this moment.

It felt good to recognize the luminous side of having a ringless left ring finger.  I am on another marriage kick… but… in this moment, I am perfectly content to appear so…uhhh… flirt-with-able.  I just discoverd that Damon knows sign language, which is HOT.  I wrote about sign language in one of my recentish blogs… Watching people communicate through their bodies like that really rings my bells.  It’s better than good poetry to me.  Poetry.  You’d think that I’d be really into poetry, considering I am a poet… but I’m not.  Often, poetry bores me.  I hate having to work so hard to glean any shred of understanding.  Pbbthhht. (You’ll LOVE this~ I learned that last word from Calvin and Hobbes.  Hobbes stuck his tongue out at Calvin and made that sound and spit flew everywhere!  Cool, huh?!)  I like sufi poetry.  Especially Hafiz, because he just comes right out and SAYS it… with the most potent, devotional, beautiful, god drenched words possible… without beating heavily around the over grown weed patches.  But all this erudite, esoteric code that people call poetry?  Save it for the self important academics who need to puff themselves up by sounding smarter than they really are.  No offense if you like that junk… to each her own, right?

Speaking of poetry and clichés, I met this bitchin’ guy named Jamie the other night, and he and Mykael and I were having a hella intellectual conversation about Shakespeare, and Jamie informed us that Shakespeare invented a ton of words and now “cliché” phrases that are common place today.  In fact, I bet a good few of them have rolled off your tongue in the last hour!  (examples~ “good as gold”, “for goodness sake”, “be all, end all”, “blushing”, “aroused”, “dawn”, “champion”… ETC.)  Sounds far fetched?… Look it up, I dare you.  It’s validating to me to know that Shakespeare took such bold liberties.  I invent words all the time, but I have this voice in the back of my head, my dad’s voice… telling me that I can’t just pull words out of my ass like that… My dad… I remember him as a walking, talking, [golfing] dictionary.  He used to correct my usage of the English language all the time.  I remember once asking him, “Do you understand???”  And he said, “No, but I GET it… Understanding implies…” blah blah blah… “But to GET someone…” blah blah blah.  All his academic rigidity just made me roll my eyes. (now I think it’s charming though)

And it seared him when I’d invent words.  But come on, how do you think language came to be in the first place?  It didn’t just fall from the sky in a big alphabetic lump… Language is an ever evolving, moving, breathing entity, just like you and me and our mother earth.  It evolves as innovative, awake people (such as yours truly) stand at the edge of the abyss and yearn to give voice to our experience of being.  Duh.

Speaking of my dad, I just need to express my gratitude for the healing that has occurred in our relationship!  Sometimes I hate Wednesdays… at least when I am not feeling at my strongest… because Mykael works and then goes to his men’s circle, and I am “alone” all day… not that when he’s around we kick it, incessant old skool… but just having nearness is soothing to this little holy hermit.  So yesterday came, another Wednesday [closer to death]… and I was feeling tender hearted in the morning… but what can I say, the beat goes on… At noon, I called my dad, since we usually talk on Wednesdays.  He is such a character, believe me.  A craps dealing (croupier) triple leo with a sociology degree.  Yeah, he’s a weirdo… an adorable weirdo.  I cried on the phone with him, because of the change sweeping through my life… I told him I want to make a sweet living as a writer.  Daddy doesn’t like his little girl to cry.  He searched his mind and heart for words of comfort.  I could feel his desire to soothe me.  And I was pleasantly surprised when he told me that I should do what I love… and trust that my passion will always guide me. (!?!?!?!?!)

I have been carrying around a WAY less empowering story about my dad, and relishing telling it over and over and over again (beating it to a bloody pulp, in other words).  It goes like this~ When I was three years old, I fell into ecstatic, awe-struck love with the trapeze artists at Circus Circus (the casino in Reno), and I was sure that I would be a trapeze artist when I grew up.  To me they were sexy angel goddesses, and to a three year old girl, there is nothing more compelling than that spicy cocktail of femininity.  When I gushed my fresh aspiration to daddy, I remember him telling me that that was NOT practical.  You can’t make a living as a trapeze artist… Discouraged, I trudged my deflated three year old self back to the drawing board and within a couple of years, I settled on veterinarian.  Shrug.  Not a bad choice…

But I’ve blamed my dad for murdering my helpless, innocent dream(s) ever since.  Harsh of me, I suppose.  But at least I got to be SO FUCKING RIGHT.  (On the phone yesterday, my dad also told me not to use the word “fuck” in my writing, because there are a thousand million more innovative ways to say fuck, than stiff, exhausted old F-U-C-K… I argued for the poesis of the f word.  I told him I am a “both and” type chick.  Sometimes, I just wanna come in for the clean-up round and I know that a good old fashioned fuck will be a solid, reliable base hit.  Like anything, when over used, fuck becomes as weak and boring as watery gruel served for every meal at Oliver Twist’s orphanage… but… It also has a powerful resonance as words go… and should be milked every once in a while, if you ask ME… but you didn’t…)

So once upon a time, my dad squished his pooooor little baby’s heaven sent dreams.  And for that she has bled and condemned for decades.  Until yesterday… When he reached through the phone to dry my sugary, cup cake, strawberry short cake tears and told me to keep following my heart.  The moral of the story?  Obvious~ don’t condemn anybody for a single, frozen moment in time.  People are harbors of consciousness.  It flows into us, and it sucks back out into the greater sea.  We are dynamic and evolving.  Even the most primitive boneheads among us are tomorrow’s prophets and saints.  Trust me, I have living proof.

PS~ There is a guy sharing the table with me.  He is munching toast as he spends “quality time” absorbed in his Iphone.  I just got present to the fantastic musical orchestra of mouth sounds he is producing… The initial brazen crunch of the toast, followed my more mushy, wet, smacking of his doughy mouthfuls.  It is my new favorite song!

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. M
    May 28, 2010 @ 06:34:49

    I see you are a writer and searcher through and through… A nice insight from whence you tick. i’ve always appreciated the fricative of the word fuck. Nothing punctuates a stong emotion quite as well.

    Reply

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