June 10th, 2005

Levi and Bunny

Conversation with my Father.

I call the house.
The phone rings.
My father picks up the phone.
Father: Heeeeello?
Me: Hey!
Father: That's the first stage of horseshit!
Me: Heh
Father: Your mother is giving me a dirty look, here she is.


I've only ever heard my father say that, and he has said it many many times. I've talked to Karl about this and I think I want to actual compile a list of "southernisms". I realize that northerners have strange little sayings to. But I doubt they have the same color. I don't know what I'd do with this list once I had it... but the topic interests me nonetheless.

Conversations like this with my father are my favorite. He gets to the be the clown just long enough for me to laugh and then he leaves, making it possible to keep that good feeling instead of the inevitable whatever-else that would follow it. He taught me all the lyrics to "Bottle of Wine" by Tom Paxton. He used to sing "Battle of New Orleans" around the house when I was home becuase he knew it would get stuck in my head and drive me crazy. He pronounces words strangely on purpose but for no real reason... a trait I think I've inherited. He's odd and off and he always has been and always will be and I've been learning how to deal with the parts of him that are dealable and how to ignore the parts of him that aren't. Sometimes, things that happen to you just become part of what you are. Blame gets harder and harder to assign as it becomes less important to know who's at fault. I don't care about all that. Becuase I don't need to anymore.

Fuck. I have that song stuck in my head.
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Shadow Grin

Thinkin bout stuff n tings and udder stuff.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer. I think that, if I really sit and think about it, that always seemed a pretty obvious end result for me. I wasn't a "dreamer" as a kid. I was a watcher though. My description of invisibility sounds like some trite metaphor when I try to put it in text, so I won't. Just believe that it is entirely possible to be invisible. Literally.

Anyway, at some point between there and here the whole idea of being a writer (of what? who knows) evaporated. I like to say that I could pinpoint it. That it was an event. But it wasn't really. It was just a slow dissolving of something that wasn't exactly sturdy to begin with. It felt almost inevitable. Like something I was gladly shrugging off. And, because I never talked about this low-lying aspiration, I never really had to talk about the fact that it was leaving.

I sometimes think about that. I think about the fact that I stopped caring about writing. I don't think I have an audience, I don't think anything I have to say is actually interesting enough for anyone but a causual reader. I don't think that it actually matters to anyone other than someone who already knows me... and then only half of them. That's not a woe-is-me. The lack of focus is probably nothing but a blessing.

I do sometimes wonder though if it's one of those things that I should develop the ego for and then develop the skill. I take pictures with the same level of "oh but I'm not a photographer" and my photography is so much better than I will ever actually admit to anyone. Maybe if I just keep writing like someone who can't it will fall into place?

I envy writers. Not because they write, but becuase they don't know how not to.