"with writing, we have second chances..."

i had a dream about my dad again.

i've been dreaming about him with startling frequency. it used to be he showed up here and there, an indiscriminate flash of lightning sounding off in my brain. but since i've moved, his ghost has established a thunderous baseline in my subconscious.

my relationship with my father was itself tempestuous. we fought regularly - he being a harsh critic of things done half-assed, and me being well, an ass most of the time.

naturally as a teen i couldn't see that. navigating the social land mines of my adolescent years was time consuming and miserable enough without adding his constant disapproval. for a while there, it felt as though i'd never please him. when i was in eighth grade, i'd easily managed all A's. after school, i eagerly threw my report card down on the table in a defiant, "see?". my father calmly folded it, leaned back in his chair and said, " i know you didn't try for these."

i wanted to throttle him. the word fuck had yet to pervade my daily vocabulary and there was nothing i could say that would satiate my rage, so i stood there silent and punishing before he spoke again. "when i was your age, i didn't have to try either. i never bothered to learn how to study and when i got to college, it bit me in the ass. don't let it bite you. what's it worth anyway if you don't have to fight for it?"

typical. thanks for the lesson, ass. it was just like him to be right about these sorts of things, but would a little blind optimism have killed him? probably, but a heart attack got there first.

in a week and a half, it will be eleven years since he died. time spent as my alter-ego, captain obvious, has led me to believe this is part of the reason why he's been making so many cameos on the selena sleepy time variety hour. i can also deduce that moving away from my family of friends required its own grieving process not unlike the process triggered by the loss of a loved one. but the main reason i think he's showing up is that deep down, i'm still trying to figure out if i please him.

the universe-imposed distance between us has allowed me to gain some objectivity about who were were then and who i am now. and while i still feel the sting of injustice at being robbed of a proper goodbye - at being robbed of his insight now that i am receptive to it, i do feel as though i've made progress in ways that he would be proud of. and though he never says so in my dreams, i wake up feeling peaceful. even when i wake up crying, i still feel peace, and i can only accept that as a sign that well, we might be ok.

on moving...

i know i belong here. i don't know how it happened, or when that certainty lit up my brain. the time frame is difficult to pinpoint. synapses fire and misfire all the time. you know this.

it could have happened when i first caught sight of the city skyline. behind the wheel of a rental truck, my body perched on the edge of the bench like a child in an oversized chair, i remember how my jaw slipped and my eyes widened, trying to take it all in.

it could have happened when i made out with a boy i met at my first party here. we were relative strangers despite a long evening of excessive drinking and intimate laughter. we were willing participants to a clumsy and natural progression of mingling tongues; the calm proprietors of desperately roving limbs, lulled quiet by the promise of a cozy and comfortable sleep.

it could have happened when i finally found a job. not generally a slave to structure, after months of relative freedom and selfish indulgences, i found myself grateful for something other than my own desire to answer to.

it could have happened when my friends would call from home. their voices curious and hopeful, dutifully restraining thoughts like, "you can always come home, you know", and "why did you leave in the first place?". my voice adopts the same bouyancy in reply, as i filter out thoughts of "what's the quickest way to pack a suitcase?" and "i suppose i could send for my things later". on second thought, perhaps this is not how it happened.

perhaps it was a culmination of these things - like learning that the simple act of walking everywhere for weeks left me equipped with a solid map of that once enigmatic skyline. learning that the goodbye whispered to a peaceful, slumbering boy as i slunk out the door at six the next morning, wasn't a condemnation of character or lack thereof, but maybe just an affirmation of humans being human.

on my days off i reprise those selfish indulgences and squander hours by tucking myself away in novels or by standing on pier 50 trying to determine which sound is louder - the waves crashing below or the oceans of freeway above me. on my days off, i feel that peace of mind that can only be felt from working my ass off on my days on, and it makes me feel connected here somehow.

or perhaps even, just maybe, this sense of belonging was there in those phone calls all along. in the way that i never said the words aloud, "but i AM home", for fear of it being true.

but i am. and i know i belong here.

for starters...

it should be known that this is more or less a dumping ground for my ideas, literary or otherwise. i say otherwise because i often have dreams where i invent great and useful things such as a remote controls for fancy light switches or guacamole and wasabi tamales. i am well aware that these gems should not be withheld from the public, and so have created this blog.

you're welcome, america.