Right now I am feeling my lost childhood. When I was younger and used to come up here it used to be with friends and we used to have a great time playing with waterguns and exploring and doing young boy stuff. After dad died that stopped, and as I came up here and realized just how much I am now too old to do, I also realized how much I have begun to mourn the childhood that I lost between the ages of 12 and 19. (not all of that being childhood years but whatever.) I feel like NOW I am finally ready to be a child only I'm not anymore and I have to skip right to young adult without having a teenagedom in any real sense of the word. I feel like I've wasted SO much time and I feel terrible about it and I know I need to get PAST that because it's NOT constructive, but right now I am thinking about all the TIME that it took to get over my dad's demise.
I think that some of my romantic issues have to do with that. I have another friend who sort of ignored girls during his highschool years and his current reaction is to want to do adult things with teenaged girls. I, instead am just barely starting to want to do teenaged things with adult girls. Which one of us is sicker?
That could be an explanation for my wish that today's sexual processes didn't happen SO fast. It's like once someone's nineteen they're supposed to have had a dozen partners already and how am I supposed to find someone to be nervous about holding hands with in that kind of candidate pool?
I wanted to be old enough to be on my own and have a place in the world and now that I almost am I am starting to recognize the joys of childhood. I am resisting growing as quickly as I can in a bizzare attempt to hold on and give myself a few more seconds minutes hours days weeks months years as a kid before it's all gone and I can never do it again. BUt it is all gone and I need to let go. That's the only choice which offers a positive outcome.
I guess being up here is a chance.
My dad does haunt this place a little, but in a good way I think. One of the reasons that I didn't want to come up here is that I didn't want to make new memories of the place to erase the ones with my dad in them. My mother and I talk about my dad less and less as life steamrolls slowly onward. I think of him less and less. The memories start to slip and it TERRIFIES me when a 39 year old man tells me that he can't remember his life before age 15. My dad was only alive until I was 12. I'm so scared of losing him. I'm scared to let him go because he is the only person I think I've ever really had the kind of connection that one could call love with. I love my mother in a generic way more closely identified with comfort than any sort of powerful emotional connection. My father I really loved. And when he's gone from my mind there will be nothing to replace him and I will be TRULY alone and I know I am not ready for that yet. Coming up here was like discovering a fresh pocket of memories of him trapped beneath all the other ones which are going stale. Like finding fresh soft bread beneath the stale stuff in the bag. But I'm worried that I'll use it all up and there will be nowhere left with a pocket of these memories. Jeff might say that's good, get it out of my system, learn to move on, but I'm so very scared of not having my daddy anymore. I still really need my daddy even if it's just a memory of him trying to start a fire in the woodstove or pulling the motorboat up onto the landing at the ice cream shop.
I'm crying now and it feels good. I'm glad I was able to do so quickly instead of dragging out the pain. It's a good release.
It's so very hard to let go and lying to myself in this journal is the first pointless step. I know that I don't know what's going on inside of me but I'm trying to explain it away because it admit it's confusing right now is scary. I'll understand eventually, but for now it's just a mess of mixed emotions including hope, regret, self satisfaction, and self pity.
I'm a little scared to stop writing because that means I have to deal with this stuff internally instead of being an exhibitionist and shoving it out onto the net to be reviewed later when I'm less caught up in it and less involved with the pain.
I compose long entries in my head sometimes and fail to put them out because typing out thoughts I've already had tends to be odious. It's a good technique for working through emotion and thought.
Why do humans have to be so darned complex?
I was listening to David Sedaris' book "Me Talk PRetty One Day" in the car on the way up and I really disliked it. I found him to be an irritating person and a shallow writer focusing on pithy turns of phrase over interesting thoughts. I also thought that the subtlties in his style were almost entirely based on self agrandizement and the arrangement of his stories put everything under the shield of his homosexuality, which makes him a bit more sympathetic but does not excuse some of his behavior such as his drug binges, and his condemnation of performance artists despite his having been one achieved by distancing himself from them because he was on drugs and just doing it for cash while they are sober and intentional.
I don't think that being incensere about art makes you a superior specimin.
I am wearing jeans for the first time in years. It's a small step but so what?
This is probably a long distance call but I can't let go, not quite yet. That's okay though, I owe much more for my mistake in New York and this is something I need. Being miserly with money is silly, if I need to spend money to grow as a person that's money well spent. There's not much to be said for being a slightly less poor infant.
I need to throw off the shackles of consumerism and EXIST in whatever way feels best for ME.
David Sedaris' book made me want to write but I can't write on my mother's computer and I won't write by hand. Is it that I always want to write in situations where it's not feasible or is it that the fact that writing isn't feasible makes me want to write? I don't know.
But at least I managed to write this. That counts for something.