Latest stop on the grief train.

So I've been pretty reticent about posting anything personal for a while. There are lots of reasons for this but I can break them into two categories: I've been busy, and I've been happy. (Of course as I type that, I feel a tinge of melancholy, but I'll ignore it.)

For the most part, the biggest load of the grief has been borne, but like Jello, I'm certain there's always room for more. Perhaps the biggest thing that has helped me along is also the least healthy (no not crack), distance. I feel like a large part of me moving to Los Angeles was that deep-seeded urge that all bright-eyed small town dwelling idealists are daily driven by. Part and parcel with that urge was the desire to sever ties with my family. My parents' divorce was particularly shattering for me, and my chance of seeing my dad went from "rare" to "Brigadoon" status. (Brigadoon is a play about a town that only appears every seven years, blah blah, totally gay reference, blah blah.) As things became increasingly strained between myself and my father, as well as mother I suppose, the best option was for me to jump ship. So I did, and it was pivotal in my development......

(HOLY FUCK!!! the dude in the cubicle next to mine apparently has never heard of head phones. He's watching some documentary about Van Halen cranked to fucking 12.)

Where was I?
So yeah, moving. You really learn who you are and you learn to rely on your friends. You learn what life outside the nest is like. Your wings get stronger, and all that the metaphor of a baby chick leaving home implies. The downside is your connection with your family becomes dampened. I wouldn't say it is deadened or killed rather like putting your ear up against the cotton in a bottle of aspirin, but instead of your ear it's your heart. And so things that should hurt you maybe don't hurt you as bad. Which is kind of how life works I guess.

But you know what, that's not true. Or maybe it is to a certain extent...I'm probably quantifiably less connected to my parents, but not by much. What has kept me from crying every day since my father's death is the lack of things that remind me of him. I can not even imagine living in Denver or Englewood right now. Especially because both of my parents lived their entire lives there. Can you imagine that? Think about that for a second. The entire road mad of your life, contained within a few square miles. This church here? Your aunt was married there. This funeral home? Grandpa's buried there. I wrecked my car there, had sex there, and punched someone in the eyeball there. Kind of cool I guess. But really heavy.

I'm getting off track... let's bring it back in. The short time I spent in Denver after my dad passed was so debilitating. Frankly just thinking about it right now is making me misty. Driving by the building where he opened a tanning salon, or past his ex-wife's bar.

Not to mention just the day to day experience of living near someone. I still have those phantom pains of having a debate with Andrea and thinking, "I'll just ask dad....ah fuck." Or even seeing a movie and knowing that my dad will never see it.

(OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!! TURN THAT SHIT DOWWWWWWN.)

Anyway, this is all getting off track. It's 6 o'clock and I'm ready to leave and check out "Chinese Hercules"at the Grindhouse. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it gets easier, especially if you live far away.

This is awful. I'm quitting blogging forever.


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