"a monkey could create a novel given a computer & you have diarrhea of the mouth"

091225 05:15
I love to write. At the same time I am aware of messages given to me by my father, that seen from different perspectives and accepted through various senses, were stultifying to me. Barriers placed between my love of reading and the potential of ever making letters become words, then sentences, dancing across a white void.
My father stole much from my life which he seemed, at the end of his, fond of reminding me, the cost to him.
In those last face-to-face hours between us I came to say, “yes Dad”, and finally to say “Thank You.”
Finally, at the time of his death, he spoke to me via telephone, saying “Goodbye.” I did not weep so much as thank him for his kindness, and tell him that I would miss him, I do.
And then I wept for his transition from life to death, my loss, and finally laying aside my lifelong quest to have him love me period.
Now I know he knew not what love is and could never love himself as I do myself now.
I know myself, a difficult person to love. Perhaps it is my endless curiosity about life, and that led me to God. What, or such, love I give is mine to do with, and its value is absolute.
. . . and I have respect, even reverence, for another’s choice to avoid me.
I will not bore you with the dream that awoke me since I accept it as a ribald, very personal, an indication of love and mutual acknowledgement that laughter is a component of love between friends.
If I call God a friend then I am not insane but more sane than I can comprehend; why me?
Love is more power than most can apprehend or accept . . . why did I feel such a flood of energy in writing those mere words? Or the tears welling up?
In the awaking from my dream I was iridescent and accepting that God is, and my son and daughter live in God. And for the gift of my dream, the knowing my children well and beloved by move love than I could have ever given them; I would be come nothing, not even ash or dust.
If I offend you, or God, please forgive my transgression; but I refuse to be otherwise than I am.
At the Christmas Mass, there were, I confess, moments of desolate boredom, my problem does not apply to anyone but myself. I have known myself skewed from events experienced as a child in church through to last night. It is only now that I can laugh at myself, my solemnity was too vast before. But the rounded and crumbling words, ritually spoken in liturgy speaks not of the joys and sorrows I know, now, before, or expect after I am ash.
What remains is that I, somehow, hear the songs sung in thee.
There is no sin in pleasure, since pleasure is the seasoning of life; a bit of salt in the soup of everything. Yet too much salt is no pleasure but the bitterness of too much.
I now find value in everything, but of some things: I parse the difference between value and waste; what some call evil. I have forgiven my father, and love him more than before, in that I am victorious, no reply or recompense required. Of his actual personal value I am aware and celebrate, of self-waste, his or mine, all now forgotten.