Of stale Drafts, published out of … desperation? Robert is, was his name. My dad … circa 11/14/16
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| me and my dad |
phone calls at 6 am are hardly ever good.
blood used the word relief later in the morning
i went with hopeful and grief, vs. mercy and …???
but no heart ache.
i suspect i’ll reproach myself, as i’ve done in the past.
He was one of five brothers, neither the oldest nor the youngest.
He served our country honorably.
He served our towns and communities with honor.
He traveled the world with the Army and Navy.
He settled back home in Utica.
He was a volunteer fire fighter.
He was a cinema projectionist, like his father.
He helped with Boy Scout troop activities – camping in the winter up in the adirondacks.
He helped with the church camp in the summer.
He visited his father frequently and often, when dean was in ill health.
He ‘was our loudest champion’ blood recalls.
He had a unique photography style that I kid about. But I also shoot photos probably with his blessing.
//12:45p + 14Nov2016 = Monday afternoon || KEXP plays, the rain falls, skies grey & cloudy//
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6:14p + 7 Jun 2017 = Wednesday evening || The Gaslight Anthem “1,000 Years’ from the Cardinal Sessions plays on YouTube
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Why do I come back?
it’s marked ‘draft’ – but is it worthy to be published?
I re-read and it’s an account, but not a lot of heart and feel.
and in the months since then I’ve grown accustomed to the fading of the thoughts of Dad.
Recently I heard that all 5 died in a year – odd, I thought – wasn’t there an age difference?
I find it uncomfortable that I’m as unaffected by my dad’s death as I am. It should be something more – something great, something important. But that’s not what I find … & in very odd and weird way I’m both ok with that and unsurprised; is it my wisdom coming to play? my soul finally seasoned enough to know that had I been there then – at any point in the past – and I had engaged and cared, it would have been more. As it was, it was fine and that’s good.
As I step gingerly along the path to ‘dad-hood’ (been long talks about ‘dad’ as a word hurled at me in joyous jest – and my reactions that are not exactly happy) – I get to play the ‘did Dad do this with me?’ – will my musical tastes be shared with Rumbly? If so, why? Did my Dad ever try to share? what happened when he did? Or was he and I just people on a path? Not in a bad way, just … hmmm.
of parents, of fathers, of time passing before my eyes – it’s all a big ball of … look – squirrel!!
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12:32p + 9Jun2017 = Friday mid-day || keXp on community and costs//
hi.
My name is Scott.
My dad’s name was Robert.
He died in November, after a few years of not really being around anymore.
It was hell on his wife and kids, hellish on my sister Shari, and mostly painless for me.
I’ve not come to terms with that – it should have been more … something.
I’ve become acquainted with the pain of loss, and also the honesty of what something (someone) means respective to my life/world. All cannot be gold. Some are silver, some are bronze, some even copper … does that analogy work? does it offend? Hmmm…
some are stones, some are pebbles, some are jewels and gems?
I look up at a black and white printout of the sonogram of my son from December.
Next to it is a bad printout of a pic from his first month – on the changing pad, eyes open, looking up, his hands about to gesture … life has a new meaning to me and at this point in my existence it’s odd, or at least sublime.
such odd times, yes?
Ok, enough.
write and write and write and puke upon a page, holding dear the detrius of my stomach’s soul – does it reflect the joy and deliciousness the meal gave me? No … as does this post. sigh.
ciao,