That's not what I want

I've been expecting it for a while. That discussion.

"I haven't heard from you in a while. You could call more often." He suggests.

"Dad, you could call me more often, too. A relationship is supposed to be a two way street. I call you more often than you call me. I've done so for the last 10 years, and I've got the phone records to prove it." I respond.

"That isn't how it works. You call me."

"It's better for you to keep that rule intact than to have a relationship with your son?"

"You need to understand that, later in life you may regret that. Let's just say that certain things someone in your position may feel entitled to might not be there when the time comes."

"Is that what you think I want? Why would you think that? Since college I have never asked you for money-- not even to help pay for medical school. That's 11 years without asking for a cent. I don't visit you. I call you ten times a year to remind you that you have a perfectly good son that you refuse to engage in a meaningful relationship, and to remind me that I do more than you do in attempting to keep our relationship alive. Despite this, you think that I want your material possesions? I don't even know what your possesions are. I don't know what you have in your house, your bank, your mind, or your heart. I don't know what you have that you care about; that you hold special. I know it isn't me. The idea that after you pass I will want your things or your money is simply wrong. I don't know what your things are. I don't have your money, and clearly I don't care to 'work' towards getting it."

The words came out, but it was useless. Shortly after "Is", the mind stopped listening. A crystal glass swirled rocks of ice around some Jack Daniels, only barely mixed with some diet coke. The noise continued for a while, and then he replies softly, and slowly "Well, it's up to you." The tone of his voice is different this time, and it's disturbing, and he knows it-- that's the point. It's not the voice he uses regularly-- not the typical drunk swagger. It's the old voice. The voice of the father who has been gone since 1997. The current imposter is using the old voice as an impersonation-- an impersonation of someone he once was, but clearly no longer is.

The anger builds inside of me, as the imposter rubs salt in the wound of losing someone cared for. "Well, it's up to you, too." I reply.

The only thing I'm sure I'll have in the future is the same thing I have now: an unsatisfactory relationship with my father.

Why I hate my PC

The Ibis rests, so this is the result, no introspection, just pure catharsis...

I hate my PC. It seems to hate me, too. It's a Dell Inspiron 6000, a laptop. It has a great keyboard, and when I bought it I was so excited to be like all those other people with a portable computer...

It sucks.

Antivirus software is the enemy of the laptop. Since the computer isn't on most of the time, every time I turn the thing on it has to update the antivirus software and then scan for viruses. Even if I cancel the scan, it's still a good 5 minutes of wasted time just to start things off. Then the whole thing crashes because the video card isn't really compatible with the computer or windows or both. The video card manufacturer points the finger at dell and microsoft and they point the finger right back. In the middle is me with my $2000 computer, rebooting more than typing. No one cares, except me. No more PC for me.

I've gone over to the dark side of Mac. Macs aren't perfect, and they aren't always easy. As far as I can tell the most annoying part of Mac is the Apple store-- a bunch of scruffy bearded guys and girls in tight shirts answering yes to any question asked. The Mac has problems, and it can be difficult to configure, but it works most of the time. And, the Mac people are generally useful in helping you fix things, so long as you aren't using anything not made by Apple. I don't care that it costs more up front. You don't have to pay for antivirus software every year, and you don't have to take it to Geek Squad to fix. Geek Squad, if you think of it, is a company almost exclusively devoted to fixing people's broken PCs. Next time you're in best buy, walk over and see how long it takes to get to the front of the Geek Squad line. Then buy a Mac and leave all of that behind.

The Schedule

I don't know exactly when it happened... Sometime between leaving the sunshine state and getting married, I became a scheduler. I can't tell you exactly why this happened. Just seems that I like it better that way right now. I can schedule anything-- fun, work, payments, spontaneity, whatever. The more scheduling the better.

Fortunately, I'm not surrounded by people who like spontaneity-- in movies it seems to be a fatal character flaw to lack spontaneity. You'd rather have herpes than lack a spontaneous streak. Yet, in life now, it seems that spontaneity has become quietly linked with flakey. Quitting a job, ditching work to take a weekend road trip-- you'll never fill a 401k like that. And that's on my schedule. So is going to Vegas, by the way.

I don't think I was always like this... Sure I was never as free as I'd like to think I was... In my mind, college was nothing but free time and one blank open schedule-- people spoke of spontaneity like it was in short supply-- life itself seemed to be spontaneity then. The reality is that maybe my first semester was like that, and maybe my last semester was like that, but in between were 8 semesters of tests, exams, papers, labs, midterms, and finals... I've forgotten the 95% hard work, and only remember a few parties, bars, and beach trips. I didn't feel the freedom I had then, but I know now that I had it.

I don't know if I'll ever go back to what it was before. If I think about the greatest possible outcome of my career-- to become wildly successful and retire early. I think in my retirement, I'll mostly want to schedule lots of things. Fun things, but scheduled things.

I never know as much as I think I do

It's always easy to look in from the outside and figure I've got it all figured out.

My person, actions, thoughts, being, career, and life are perfect, without question, or reproach-- so the thinking goes. Since that's all tidy, I may as well start looking around at others and explain in a veiled way how they should make themselves more like me-- faultless and all...

Yet, Ibis, the truth is so far from that.

You wouldn't know I have barely slept in three weeks. The worst part of it is I don't know why. It's certainly not for lack of being tired. It's not for a lack of opportunity. I'm so tired during the day now, I sometimes lay down on the floor beneath my desk-- still I don't sleep. "What is wrong with me?" I cry out internally-- suddenly intensely aware that my attainment of perfection was, at least, incomplete.

Before three weeks ago, I somehow forgot about the one thing I fear most-- sleep deprivation.

For at least three years sleep was a privilege not regularly afforded. For the past two years though, sleep has been a regular option for me, but now I cannot seem to make it work. All of this truthfully must just be the surface of what is a deeper pool of imperfection. C'est La Vie.

Turns out, you have to

Sometimes, it turns out that you have to.

Get out of bed

Take your hat off

Kick some ass, maybe your own, maybe someone else's, maybe everyone's

Remember yourself

Appreciate the good things you can do when you're not busy being distracted by what's important to other people

Remember that the ability to connect with another person is one of the most important parts of life.

Remember that it's a gift to be able to do that.

Remember that I have seen a child's brain beat in the open air like a heart, and made that all better again.

Remember that I've helped cure a cancer when there seemed to be no hope.

Remember that Thank You sometimes means nothing, and sometimes means everything.

Remember that I've saved a life.

Remember that the love of others is probably the only thing that will ever make most of us special in this world.

Sometimes we're all wrong

The line between helper and helped isn't always clear. What seems to be trouble to one can be safety to the other. Not all helpers are actually any good at helping. Some are resolved to wind through life, moving from oasis to oasis among the deserts. Picking up a snack here or there, if they are hungry.

A shame in life. I don't see it often, but I've seen it recently: the sight of someone who isn't able to see what they're better at. Some people can draw, and some people can write (most can write better things than I can), but enduring the crooked pictures of the person who can connect with others through words, seemingly effortlessly, is a shame. I wish I read more of your words, Ibis, and the pictures are pretty good too. Maybe I just don't understand the pictures, I've never understood paintings.

While I'm thinking of it, there must be deserts in the oceans. I don't know where, but I'll bet they're out there somewhere, and not in some sort of cheated ocean, like the arctic ocean, but in the atlantic or pacific. A part of the ocean that just doesn't see much rain. That would be something.