Mar. 29, 2003 - 6:20 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
After days and days of happy weather, the mercury has grown tired and has edged back down into the 30s. Snow is spitting at the windows once again. As I write this, I am at the famous law firm trying my hand at webmaster and organizer. I am poring over the huddled masses of data, hoping to lead them through the online Ellis Island that I am now supposed to administer. The halls are silent, save for the sound of the heating ducts (which just recently stopped with a groan and chun-chunnn-chunnnnn-chunnnnnnnnnnnn sound). Luckily, I have had your letter to keep me company and keep me from going nuts.
There are numerous things in the world I do not partake of because they are either viewed as important, iconic or vital, and here is a partial list, in no particular order: ‘Our Town’, ‘E.T.: the Extra Terrestrial’, Indiana Jones films, ‘Friends’, Oprah Winfrey, Second City, Eminem, ‘Cats’, ‘Starlight Express’, ‘Les Mis’, ‘Chicago’ (the movie, not the town), Jennifer Lopez, Dr. Phil and ‘Brigadoon.’ You may boo and hiss if you wish. I carry a not-entirely-unwarranted belief that things that are known to be important by popular opinion are not always the product of popular thought or popular fact.
I’ve nothing much to add or say about your description of your father, other than his character is well evidenced in my letter-writing partner. I suspect he and I would disagree about a great many things, but I also sense his hand would never get to holster position. Undoubtedly, the beat would have changed him or anyone over the breadth of a quarter century; as a veteran of at least three decades myself, I have found the beat – of the world, not just a job – to line me up with your father’s stance on people. I didn’t call the group Suspicious Clowns for nothin’.
I wish I could regale you with tales of my father, but the Cliff Notes’ version is this: he was married to my mom, they divorced, and he’s been dying a little bit every year since. My father is the type of fellow who would reminisce about ‘the good old days’ without a shred of irony sneaking in. I haven’t spoken to him in well over ten years, at least after he edged into threatening my mother for fun and attention, though I am assured that there’s very little news to obtain.
There’s far more to admire in my mother, but her and I talk only intermittedly any more. There was a point in my 20s when I could have become more involved in the family, but I missed that particular train altogether. At that point, I didn’t find myself too interesting nor did I think I had much to offer, so I kept quiet. My father was usually loud. At this point in time, though, the results are eerily similar: I’m not sure where, how or if I stand in the family rankings, despite the fact I talk to more of them now than I ever had.
If I became Sociological Officer for the World, I think one think I would make law would be an equal amount of pictures for each and every child a couple has. As the second of three children, I remember looking at how much ‘coverage’ my sister received in comparison to me. Her baby book – with diary entries and photographs and such – was chockfull. Mine was not nearly as chocked, with dotings of ‘I love you more every day’ vanishing around my three month anniversary on the planet. From the perspective of an adult, and an adult who has seen many other similar situations, I can understand. But it took until well after the age of reason to put two and two together on that one.
One of the most popular snags I’ve experienced in life is ‘everyone is an individual’ versus ‘everyone is just part of everyone else’. Never could balance those two (and you remember from the teeter totter discussions, that I’m a big one for balance), either by using religion, psychology or cold-fact inventory as tools. The best I’ve been able to do is use either as a rationalization for wherever my ego happens to be at the time, either to lift it up or tone it down. Where do you sit/stand/kneel on the subject?
The back is both improving and worsening. I have found that my train ride this morning downtown seems to have loosened it up considerably; now standing is much less of a chore. However, there are brief moments of very intense pain. En route to breakfast this morning, my two breakfast mates were chatting away so furiously that I was left behind by no less than a half a block.
It would be a much nicer world if pain could actually be seen. “Uh-oh, Bob’s got a red aura – let’s slow down!” Then again, maybe not. “Uh-oh, Bob’s got a red aura – give me that cat-o-nine-tails and let’s see how luminescent he can get!”
Black and white and mildly red all over,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
