Wednesday, December 15, 2010


Sat down to eat, in front of the TV, and saw something of the much-vaunted show, Modern Family. Supposed to be ever so good. Crap. A cross between The Office and Arrested Development, so it should have been very good. Crap. Crap. Maybe I got a bad sampling? Too bad. One chance, and they blew it. So blow me.

Very tired.

Looks like I'm starting strength training again. Did some tentative deadlifts. Getting the form back. Think I'll pare it down to just deadlifts, squats and overhead presses. Work on kipping chinups, double unders and rowing. If I get access to a fast treadmill I'll do intervals. 15 mph. Anything slower is jogging.

Alas, I think my shoulder is tweaked. Nice, thoughtful, tough roll tonight with a black belt, but there was an athletic leap that may have got me. We shall see.

I seem to be doing this blog again. It's a place to vent. This morning I was absolutely ranting to myself about my father. I just can't get over it. You can't say these things to them, parents. They can't understand, won't change, won't repent. I just can't let it go. Cursed with a narcissist for a father. Clinical. All through the sixties his style was cowboy hat, canvas Levis jacket, and custom-made knee-high black leather boots. Muscle man, in the sixties. People would touch his muscles, in line for the movie theater. Well, we all project a self image. But did it have to be that everyone in the house existed at his pleasure? When he came home from work, I'd find some place to be that was out of the way. I still try always to eat alone, when I eat. Meal time was something extraordinary.

He wasn't violent, out of control -- but he did have a big wide black leather belt, that he used, not indiscriminately but without justice; my eh-hole brothers would fight, and I'd get lumped in with the "whippings" as we called them. In any case, unceasingly disapproving, judgmental, critical, and at the same time phony. So much preaching, so many lectures as we called them, so many unspoken rules. For no good purpose. So the letter I got from him last week remains unread. Fuck Christmas. Leave me alone. Do not try to drag me back into that nightmare. And why would he want contact anyway with his homosexual pedophile son?

Bitter? Unforgiving?

On the other hand, I was told today of a father who seems to have changed his surely ways, just because of a few palliative words from his son. Conduct may be volitional after all. There may be rationality in the universe.

I'll withhold judgment.


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