Of late, things have been busy. Of course, on the Mount time gets distorted and it does not match up with everyone else's perception, but there's still been enough time to miss the few extra minutes here or there. And when I have had those moments, the computer is the last thing I seek.
The child has been occupying much of my time. Astrid is there occasionally, but she still goes out and judges if people are worthy to exist or not, and there have been more calls for that these past few months than I can recall at any point in the beginning.
I have started him on a writing regiment, the way I was taught. Yes, he speaks well, and in varied languages, but his writing remains like chicken scratch and even then, he much prefers to drop his writing implements and ask me why he needs to write when he could just tell me. The first time he did it, I did not have an answer I was willing to give him. I told him instead that sometimes there would be people he needed to tell something to that would have to be told at a later date when he was not around. Fortunately, he is not yet so adult that he said he would call the person on the cellular phone and leave a message, or pop down from Mt. O to make a house-call, so he accepted it and continued his exercises.
I just do not want him to be like me. Already he has proven that he is so much more than I ever was. He is the best thing in my life, my single accomplishment, and having him is the only thing I am proud of having done. I was never great a man with triumphs to my name, or feasts held in my honour. Indeed, I would argue that I was never a man at all. I served, and often more as a place to lay a crop or whip than something to be functional.
I was kept in a state of miserable ignorance, knowing that somewhere out in the world, there was more, so much more, but it was not for me. Those goddamn bastards didn't want us to be educated intelligent people, to contribute to... to anything. Not on insight to the human condition, not to the betterment of the society, not even to the golden fucking glory of Rome. I may as well have been an unshaped piece of wood for all they wanted of me. And they made fucking sure that we didn't know anything.
Perhaps they wanted to make damned sure that we didn't start thinking, perhaps form our own ideas, be able to carry out our thoughts. We had our own functional knowledge, yes, and it varied from household to household, slave to slave. There were slaves to work in the kitchen and they were phenomenally intelligent about their domains. They knew how to tell one herb from another, how old things were, where to get the best bread in the vicinty and it amazed me. Or the slaves who cleaned the villa, they knew every item in the household, its history, its value, where it was kept, how it was placed, how it needed to be cleaned. And the artisans, and the doctors, all slaves, and yet, what they knew!
And when I would have a cause to be outside of the walls of the villa, the slaves of some households looked like nobility themselves. They were kept fine and elegant. They dressed well, spoke well, their manners were exquisite and they held themselves with such confidence that even freemen and nobility could not help but be pleasant and polite. And the Dacians, with their fair hair and blue eyes, their perfect skin, made me hate myself even more. They were foreign, captives of battle and of defeated provinces, and they were beautiful. And unfailingly, these slaves looked down their long elegant noses at me, too.
Once, one of them spoke to me, while I was still young, and though scarred, not yet mangled. His introduction was nothing short of a command to get out of his way. I scrambled to remove myself from his path, both terrified and in awe. He was not particularly handsome, but his short white tunic had recently come from the fulleries (you could always tell when they were newly bleached) and he wore sandals. His hair was cut and clean, and there was no dirt under his fingernails. After seeing that, I don't think I ever had the desire to be free, since there were some slaves who were so well kept and respected and far better off than the freemen. I just wanted to be away, anywhere, so long as I no longer was forced to endure the abuse by people I wanted to love and who should have, if not loved me, at least have been decent to me.
I always thought it was my innate stupidity that made me as I was. At twenty-six, what do you really know when no one's ever given you a shred of their time save to determine that you're wearing the wrong expression or perhaps, for an eighth of a second, made unwarranted eyecontact?
My sole knowledge was that of an animal. I knew that if I was noticed, I was in trouble, and if I bared my teeth, I'd be in much deeper trouble. I knew when to cower, and I knew when I was hungry. I knew how to be afraid every second of my life, and the only thought I had, when I was too cold or not so worn out to sleep, was how to repay them all.
I thought of horrible ways how to kill them, how to prolong the agony, how to keep them alive so that they could beg me to let them die. Them, begging me for mercy. Anger was the only thing I had. That and despair. But I was too much of a coward at the time to do anything. I often thought about killing myself, but I always feared if I lived, they would torture me worse than ever.
And looking at my boy, I wonder how I could have ever fathered this beautiful wonderful child who stuns me with his intelligence and his insight. Would I have been like him had someone cared about me? Certainly, I would have been less ignorant if I had been taught, and more open to the world had anyone but taught me of trust, yet, even with the best treatment and the most support possible, I cannot imagine being anything as great as my child.
We all want something better for our children, pray that they turn out better than we did, succeed more, achieve more, be happy, healthy and proud of themselves. And I pray I've been a good father, have done the right things, loved him enough. In the end it is all just a craps-shoot, but I hope I've given him the ability to rise far above those that still hold a lingering disgust for me.
All this because I was illiterate.... imagine if I actually had something to say.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Country
Last post, I remarked about how much I liked NYC. Seems no one else shares that sentiment. Let me remind all of you little mortals, 900 years of nothing-but-country cures you pretty quickly, particularly when you're still under the impression that light is a fatal entity.
But prior to the 900 years in god-forsaken Alaska, I did live in the country. I don't have to tell you about Taberleigh. It's history. Find it in a textbook, not here. I lived on the outskirts. I usually lived on the outskirts of every town -- just far enough that they didn't come bothering me, just close enough that I could go get the supplies I couldn't provide for myself.
Everyone thinks that the DH business is a glam-fest with immortality thrown in as a bonus. They teach you to fight, wear leather, look like a nasty son-of-a-bitch and then give you wealth to do whatever the hell you want, just kill the daimons in exchange. Sounds like a bargain, right?
What Ash didn't tell me was that after he taught me to fight and manage with all those other inconveniences like fangs and sunlight deprivation, I was going to be tossed back out into the great wide world to fend for myself. And I had to learn or I was Shade-fucked. No squires for me. Even with my single-minded devotion to those who had done their part to make me whole (and I *was* devoted -- Ash had been the single-most important, respected, loved person in my life at that time) I still wasn't good enough to be given aid. And no amount of daimon-killing, offered-assistance or show of dedicated admiration was enough to prove that I was worthy of a goddamn assistant. Olympians are ever the elitists.
So, I grew my own vegetables and raised my own chickens and geese and managed my own small farm for years, centuries. It was thoroughly 'country.' A donkey for the cart, self-made furniture, a shed that I was constantly repairing -- they were the happiest years of my DH life. I did hard work -- we all did. But my limbs were straight and my back was strong, and I had both eyes to see with and both hands to use.
In the summers, when the nights were warm enough and the daimon-counts were low, I would swim in the pond, feeling the silt between my toes when I stood, feeling clean and happy, for I was happy in those days. And the first place I lived, in Gaul, had this great pond where everything around it was quiet, and no one lived within an hour's cart-ride of my shack. From there, you could see the whole sky reflected on the surface of the water, as if both sky and ground were composed of nothing but celestial bodies. I was just learning how to read and write and I remember wishing so earnestly that I could put it into words to share with someone else.
But that was a long time ago, when I still felt like an injured pup licking my wounds and before one of my greatest betrayers was still like a brother to me. Now that great little pond is probably dried up and turned into a shopping plaza.
But prior to the 900 years in god-forsaken Alaska, I did live in the country. I don't have to tell you about Taberleigh. It's history. Find it in a textbook, not here. I lived on the outskirts. I usually lived on the outskirts of every town -- just far enough that they didn't come bothering me, just close enough that I could go get the supplies I couldn't provide for myself.
Everyone thinks that the DH business is a glam-fest with immortality thrown in as a bonus. They teach you to fight, wear leather, look like a nasty son-of-a-bitch and then give you wealth to do whatever the hell you want, just kill the daimons in exchange. Sounds like a bargain, right?
What Ash didn't tell me was that after he taught me to fight and manage with all those other inconveniences like fangs and sunlight deprivation, I was going to be tossed back out into the great wide world to fend for myself. And I had to learn or I was Shade-fucked. No squires for me. Even with my single-minded devotion to those who had done their part to make me whole (and I *was* devoted -- Ash had been the single-most important, respected, loved person in my life at that time) I still wasn't good enough to be given aid. And no amount of daimon-killing, offered-assistance or show of dedicated admiration was enough to prove that I was worthy of a goddamn assistant. Olympians are ever the elitists.
So, I grew my own vegetables and raised my own chickens and geese and managed my own small farm for years, centuries. It was thoroughly 'country.' A donkey for the cart, self-made furniture, a shed that I was constantly repairing -- they were the happiest years of my DH life. I did hard work -- we all did. But my limbs were straight and my back was strong, and I had both eyes to see with and both hands to use.
In the summers, when the nights were warm enough and the daimon-counts were low, I would swim in the pond, feeling the silt between my toes when I stood, feeling clean and happy, for I was happy in those days. And the first place I lived, in Gaul, had this great pond where everything around it was quiet, and no one lived within an hour's cart-ride of my shack. From there, you could see the whole sky reflected on the surface of the water, as if both sky and ground were composed of nothing but celestial bodies. I was just learning how to read and write and I remember wishing so earnestly that I could put it into words to share with someone else.
But that was a long time ago, when I still felt like an injured pup licking my wounds and before one of my greatest betrayers was still like a brother to me. Now that great little pond is probably dried up and turned into a shopping plaza.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
That Time of Year
Yeah, I live on Mt. Olympus most of the time, but when I'm not, I'm usually to be found in NYC. I know I've mentioned it before. New Orleans is crawling with individuals I have no desire to play nice with. Besides, there are enough DHers and formers there to form their own militia. Not a place for me. Astrid likes it. I did like it, roaming around as a semi-free-man when I got my brief reprieve from exile. But NYC is my place now. I have my studio there, I've made connections. It's my city. And while I am not the first DHer (or former) to roam its streets, I do believe I am the first to actually make mention of it.
I spend enormous amounts of time outside. I like walking. I like being able to look in any direction at any time of day and be able to go, just go, and see others and see things I've never seen before, take a new street, go to a new museum, walk through a weekend craft fair stationed in a park. I still have my cell phone in case Astrid needs me, and often I take my son with me. But I have finally discovered freedom.
(Apparently, I only wait weeks to post because that's how often I'm philosophical. Figure that.)
I'm not so sure freedom is something I've been given. It feels too often like I've just been handed off from this person to that one over and over and over again, and finally ended up being transferred to Astrid with whom I am expecting to stay for the duration of my unnatural life. I love her with all my heart, but there is a reason marriage is often depicted as a ball-and-shackle.
No, freedom was never something someone handed to me (with their blessing or not). It's something I've had to make for myself, every step of the way. And I affirm it each day I go off and do something new, something I *want* to do, with every decision I make. Before, I used to think it was about taking responsibility for my own actions, but then I started taking responsibility for everyone else's and I learned that it wasn't about that. It was about being *able.* You know the phrase that Ash stole (Just because you can, etc)? Sometimes you have to, just to know you *can.* I've lived such a powerless life for so long, I'm not about to sit passively and watch everyone else have say over me. Not anymore.
So freedom, in NYC. It's a beautiful thing. The leaves are turning again. With all the time I have on my hands now, sometimes I sit in the park and just watch. And though it is very likely my imagination, sometimes I think I can actually see the leaves turning their fall colours. I keep my notebook and my watercolour pencils on hand just for such occasions. And it's not just here in NYC.
I stopped by my sort-of-squire's place earlier today. His area is pretty rural compared to the city and he directed me to a few places that were worthy of a couple of sketches. He also invited us over to a party at his place tonight, but I don't think I could stomach the other people he's inviting. It's bad enough I have to deal with Astrid's family. I really don't want to deal with his.
Not sure what the deal is with tonight. I'm going as an artist (easy, no need for anything -- just wear what I have that's already paint-stained and clay-caked) and the babe decided he wanted to be a ... get this.... a sculpture (which is why I'm going as an artist). I'm not sure where he got the idea, but probably from my studio and seeing the things I did. Astrid said she was going as Galatea to fit in with the theme of 'sculpture.' I guess that makes me Pygmalion.
~Z
I spend enormous amounts of time outside. I like walking. I like being able to look in any direction at any time of day and be able to go, just go, and see others and see things I've never seen before, take a new street, go to a new museum, walk through a weekend craft fair stationed in a park. I still have my cell phone in case Astrid needs me, and often I take my son with me. But I have finally discovered freedom.
(Apparently, I only wait weeks to post because that's how often I'm philosophical. Figure that.)
I'm not so sure freedom is something I've been given. It feels too often like I've just been handed off from this person to that one over and over and over again, and finally ended up being transferred to Astrid with whom I am expecting to stay for the duration of my unnatural life. I love her with all my heart, but there is a reason marriage is often depicted as a ball-and-shackle.
No, freedom was never something someone handed to me (with their blessing or not). It's something I've had to make for myself, every step of the way. And I affirm it each day I go off and do something new, something I *want* to do, with every decision I make. Before, I used to think it was about taking responsibility for my own actions, but then I started taking responsibility for everyone else's and I learned that it wasn't about that. It was about being *able.* You know the phrase that Ash stole (Just because you can, etc)? Sometimes you have to, just to know you *can.* I've lived such a powerless life for so long, I'm not about to sit passively and watch everyone else have say over me. Not anymore.
So freedom, in NYC. It's a beautiful thing. The leaves are turning again. With all the time I have on my hands now, sometimes I sit in the park and just watch. And though it is very likely my imagination, sometimes I think I can actually see the leaves turning their fall colours. I keep my notebook and my watercolour pencils on hand just for such occasions. And it's not just here in NYC.
I stopped by my sort-of-squire's place earlier today. His area is pretty rural compared to the city and he directed me to a few places that were worthy of a couple of sketches. He also invited us over to a party at his place tonight, but I don't think I could stomach the other people he's inviting. It's bad enough I have to deal with Astrid's family. I really don't want to deal with his.
Not sure what the deal is with tonight. I'm going as an artist (easy, no need for anything -- just wear what I have that's already paint-stained and clay-caked) and the babe decided he wanted to be a ... get this.... a sculpture (which is why I'm going as an artist). I'm not sure where he got the idea, but probably from my studio and seeing the things I did. Astrid said she was going as Galatea to fit in with the theme of 'sculpture.' I guess that makes me Pygmalion.
~Z
Monday, October 1, 2007
Being Complete
Many of you are going to say 'Z, this gentle introspection has got to stop -- it's not like you." Well to those of you out there, fuck off. My journal, my thoughts, my goddamn business what I put on here.
So, during my shower today, a nice shower, where the nozzle is above my head and I don't have to bend over -- oh the comforts most of you screw-ups take for granted -- and I am able to relax for a brief moment, let down my guard and just let thoughts come and go while I groom myself and otherwise take care of myself, I came to a brief unoriginal revelation.
I am a Complete Being.
I am Complete. This doesn't mean that I am an island and desire to be left on my own, though often it seems that way. I can take care of myself. I do not need anyone. But this was more than that.
So many people say to someone that they love, "you complete me." I love Astrid, with all my heart. And I love my son, with all my heart. But they do not Complete me. I am who I am. From the moment I came into this miserable world to the moment I leave, if ever, this is all I am. And it doesn't matter who I am, or what I am.
I wasn't even sure why or how I thought this, so I went to the studio to see if I could represent it. And I took clay and made a flat triangle, wondering if it could represent anyone out there in the world, flat and only three sided. And then I made it a square -- still flat, but with a tiny more complexity, and then, deciding that even the flattest personality was a little more three dimensional, I made a pyramid with four faces and the bottom side -- far more representative of a human.
If you progress it, as I did, you'll get a square and then many other shapes with many other faces. True Completeness is a sphere. Ever see twelve-sided dice? It is nearly spherical. And it has more complexity and aspects to it than the earlier forms. It is no wonder that the celestial bodies are spherical.
I see myself as a sphere. I am not polished and not pretty, and as far from the perfection of the shape as possible, but there are so many sides to me that they blend in with the others and become an unending spectrum. And there are the inside parts that are there though hidden and do not get expressed. But they are there, nonetheless.
Everything in me, about me, everything I feel, everything I know, all that I do, and all else that makes up this personage we call 'Zarek' makes me Complete. There isn't anything missing. There isn't anything out there in the world that can make me anymore Me. It's all here.
And it is a very peaceful thought.
So, during my shower today, a nice shower, where the nozzle is above my head and I don't have to bend over -- oh the comforts most of you screw-ups take for granted -- and I am able to relax for a brief moment, let down my guard and just let thoughts come and go while I groom myself and otherwise take care of myself, I came to a brief unoriginal revelation.
I am a Complete Being.
I am Complete. This doesn't mean that I am an island and desire to be left on my own, though often it seems that way. I can take care of myself. I do not need anyone. But this was more than that.
So many people say to someone that they love, "you complete me." I love Astrid, with all my heart. And I love my son, with all my heart. But they do not Complete me. I am who I am. From the moment I came into this miserable world to the moment I leave, if ever, this is all I am. And it doesn't matter who I am, or what I am.
I wasn't even sure why or how I thought this, so I went to the studio to see if I could represent it. And I took clay and made a flat triangle, wondering if it could represent anyone out there in the world, flat and only three sided. And then I made it a square -- still flat, but with a tiny more complexity, and then, deciding that even the flattest personality was a little more three dimensional, I made a pyramid with four faces and the bottom side -- far more representative of a human.
If you progress it, as I did, you'll get a square and then many other shapes with many other faces. True Completeness is a sphere. Ever see twelve-sided dice? It is nearly spherical. And it has more complexity and aspects to it than the earlier forms. It is no wonder that the celestial bodies are spherical.
I see myself as a sphere. I am not polished and not pretty, and as far from the perfection of the shape as possible, but there are so many sides to me that they blend in with the others and become an unending spectrum. And there are the inside parts that are there though hidden and do not get expressed. But they are there, nonetheless.
Everything in me, about me, everything I feel, everything I know, all that I do, and all else that makes up this personage we call 'Zarek' makes me Complete. There isn't anything missing. There isn't anything out there in the world that can make me anymore Me. It's all here.
And it is a very peaceful thought.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
My Own Child
I have my own little boy. So why the hell would I want to watch another child, another FEW children, particularly when they're all goddamn little brats?
My boy isn't an angel, though he looks like one, and I'll be the first to admit that. But he's no brat either. He's been given proper discipline (though may the wrath of a thousand pissed-off gods befall me again -- and MINE were only negligent --- if I ever raise a hand to him, though that isn't to say that one or two well-placed and well-timed smacks off the rear-end don't happen now and then) and proper structure in his life. I don't need maladjusted whiny snots in my life -- that's why I'm not raising my son that way.
So, Astrid decided bonding time would be to visit other Olympic-acquaintances with children around our darling's age. Well, that meant "we" were considered baby-sitters. And by then, Astrid was so wrapped up in whatever she was doing (I think it's the Mt.Olympus paging system, though I haven't quite gotten the hang of it) that *I* was the one solely responsible for four children, my own, and the other goddamn whining screaming three. So much for fucking bonding time. Not to mention the fact that by the time Astrid's asshole relations decided to return and take "responsibility" for THEIR children (meaning that they deemed it acceptable to be in the same room), they criticised me for the way I watch them, and then scolded ME for disciplining them.
We can all figure out how that shit went down with me.
For bloody-hell's sake --- if you're not going to goddamn watch your miserable clodpole children, do the world a favour and don't have them which would otherwise give the world more neglected spoiled brats and continue to ensure that your Gene of Idiocy gets passed down along the rotting family tree.
Oh, and did I mention that they kept saying "do this" and "do that" any time ANY of them decided to speak to me? Why didn't they just snap their fingers at me, carry a whip and nail my hand to the door when I didn't open it for them quickly enough?!?!?!?! So sorry, bastards. I don't wear your fucking chains anymore and I don't take your fucking orders. And if my sweet boy hadn't been there, I would have told you where to go and what to do once you got there.
I like children. There's something so innocent about them that is impossible to replicate with an adult. We've seen too much, felt too much, hate and fear too much. But these nasty little worms ruined it for me.
Or perhaps it's the parents. They really are the ones to blame: negligent, permissive and enabling. They don't watch their children, don't discipline them, don't care enough to do it, though I would hope that they love them. It's a bad world out there -- always has been harsh and punishing, in every age I've seen. Why don't people do what's best for their kids? Selfishness? They ought to be ashamed of themselves.
On a lighter note, my dreams have gone from reliving the past to complete and utter oddity. Either way, it's a kind of horror.
What a couple of days this has been....
My boy isn't an angel, though he looks like one, and I'll be the first to admit that. But he's no brat either. He's been given proper discipline (though may the wrath of a thousand pissed-off gods befall me again -- and MINE were only negligent --- if I ever raise a hand to him, though that isn't to say that one or two well-placed and well-timed smacks off the rear-end don't happen now and then) and proper structure in his life. I don't need maladjusted whiny snots in my life -- that's why I'm not raising my son that way.
So, Astrid decided bonding time would be to visit other Olympic-acquaintances with children around our darling's age. Well, that meant "we" were considered baby-sitters. And by then, Astrid was so wrapped up in whatever she was doing (I think it's the Mt.Olympus paging system, though I haven't quite gotten the hang of it) that *I* was the one solely responsible for four children, my own, and the other goddamn whining screaming three. So much for fucking bonding time. Not to mention the fact that by the time Astrid's asshole relations decided to return and take "responsibility" for THEIR children (meaning that they deemed it acceptable to be in the same room), they criticised me for the way I watch them, and then scolded ME for disciplining them.
We can all figure out how that shit went down with me.
For bloody-hell's sake --- if you're not going to goddamn watch your miserable clodpole children, do the world a favour and don't have them which would otherwise give the world more neglected spoiled brats and continue to ensure that your Gene of Idiocy gets passed down along the rotting family tree.
Oh, and did I mention that they kept saying "do this" and "do that" any time ANY of them decided to speak to me? Why didn't they just snap their fingers at me, carry a whip and nail my hand to the door when I didn't open it for them quickly enough?!?!?!?! So sorry, bastards. I don't wear your fucking chains anymore and I don't take your fucking orders. And if my sweet boy hadn't been there, I would have told you where to go and what to do once you got there.
I like children. There's something so innocent about them that is impossible to replicate with an adult. We've seen too much, felt too much, hate and fear too much. But these nasty little worms ruined it for me.
Or perhaps it's the parents. They really are the ones to blame: negligent, permissive and enabling. They don't watch their children, don't discipline them, don't care enough to do it, though I would hope that they love them. It's a bad world out there -- always has been harsh and punishing, in every age I've seen. Why don't people do what's best for their kids? Selfishness? They ought to be ashamed of themselves.
On a lighter note, my dreams have gone from reliving the past to complete and utter oddity. Either way, it's a kind of horror.
What a couple of days this has been....
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Alive
I don't know what the hell you've all been up to. In fact, I don't want to know, so don't go and comment on this thread saying "Oh Z, I've been sooooooo like, you know, um, busy! Doing this and this and this and that and..."
The above will only earn you a permanent ignore and if I cared enough, I'd see that your sorry ass was kicked to hell.
But I don't care enough.
Now that we've got that settled....
I'm keeping my life together. Astrid doesn't quite have her head on straight, and I suppose she never really did, but she's just going to have to pull things together for herself. I've tried. But I can't play nursemaid to her. I've got a child who needs ONE of us to be there for him. Just because he's got two screwed up parents doesn't mean he needs to suffer for it.
We've patched things up sort-of. It's working out. We're not throwing the wall decorations at each other.
I take the child to the studio often. He's painting -- with his hands. He gets great joy putting little orange and green hand prints on everything. And he plays with my little carvings which I do mostly for his enjoyment. But he's forbidden from clay. He eats most of it. To see it, you'd think we starve him.
He's taken to calling me "Fyothe" which, according to him, means "Daddy" in some language that I don't know. He keeps me going even when I don't want to.
On a light note, I took Astrid and Child to Central Park for a hansom ride. I think they enjoyed it. Little One was more enamoured with the horse than anything the Park had to show him. And when it was done, he sat on my shoulders and spoke the to driver and pet the horse, switching in and out of his languages, though he kept remembering it was English for most people now and when he'd slip with the driver, he'd translate and continue in his intelligent babble.
When we were done with the Park, I asked him if he thought it was nice and he looked at me oddly and said, "You know. You were there" in Greek. He's too smart for me. How did I father this little thing?
Sometimes I wonder if I would have been anything like him had I had the advantages he does. Probably not. I was never so clever or so intelligent. I don't know what he gets from me except his dark hair. He should be grateful from my lack of contribution, I suppose.
The above will only earn you a permanent ignore and if I cared enough, I'd see that your sorry ass was kicked to hell.
But I don't care enough.
Now that we've got that settled....
I'm keeping my life together. Astrid doesn't quite have her head on straight, and I suppose she never really did, but she's just going to have to pull things together for herself. I've tried. But I can't play nursemaid to her. I've got a child who needs ONE of us to be there for him. Just because he's got two screwed up parents doesn't mean he needs to suffer for it.
We've patched things up sort-of. It's working out. We're not throwing the wall decorations at each other.
I take the child to the studio often. He's painting -- with his hands. He gets great joy putting little orange and green hand prints on everything. And he plays with my little carvings which I do mostly for his enjoyment. But he's forbidden from clay. He eats most of it. To see it, you'd think we starve him.
He's taken to calling me "Fyothe" which, according to him, means "Daddy" in some language that I don't know. He keeps me going even when I don't want to.
On a light note, I took Astrid and Child to Central Park for a hansom ride. I think they enjoyed it. Little One was more enamoured with the horse than anything the Park had to show him. And when it was done, he sat on my shoulders and spoke the to driver and pet the horse, switching in and out of his languages, though he kept remembering it was English for most people now and when he'd slip with the driver, he'd translate and continue in his intelligent babble.
When we were done with the Park, I asked him if he thought it was nice and he looked at me oddly and said, "You know. You were there" in Greek. He's too smart for me. How did I father this little thing?
Sometimes I wonder if I would have been anything like him had I had the advantages he does. Probably not. I was never so clever or so intelligent. I don't know what he gets from me except his dark hair. He should be grateful from my lack of contribution, I suppose.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Check In
Yeah, I've been gone. Go to hell.
In case you losers are wondering, that's where I've been for a while. Major shit has gone down and well, yeah, I'm one of the recruits. Just as well when there's nothing else to do.
In case you losers are wondering, that's where I've been for a while. Major shit has gone down and well, yeah, I'm one of the recruits. Just as well when there's nothing else to do.
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