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Jun. 14th, 2010
This is who I am
Jun. 14th, 2010 11:57 amI've noticed that a lot of people are compartmentalizing their blogs by activity or interest. Some have an LJ just for every day life, but they also have a Dreamwidth account for the more artistic pursuits. Then there is Twitter and Facebook for fast micro-blogging in the event someone wants to see a You Tube video or know that you're sitting down for lunch. I have a Twitter account that I barely use and a Facebook account because I like its speed and I do think that making one sentence updates on LJ is a bit much. Otherwise, I place everything that I am here on my Live Journal. This is who I am. This is what I talk about. These are the things that interest me. If I split everything up and tried to place one thing one place and another thing somewhere else, I'd stop blogging altogether and check myself into the crazy house, 'cos that would definitely drive me to distraction. How others do it is beyond me but, if that's their bag, so be it.
This month my Father Unit would have turned 65. But he died the day after his birthday on the 29th of March. My Father was a big goofball, constantly being the clown at the expense of no one ever taking him seriously. I certainly didn't and all he ever wanted from me was my respect. That couple of years of his life, we came to a certain understanding of one another and we got along fabulously. Music and movies were the topics that drew us together.
There was a song that I introduced to him that he loved so much, I bought him the album it was on. It was "Somewhere over the Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole. He said that the man had the clearest voice of anyone he'd ever heard. He would listen to the album and that particular song repeatedly as he sat at the kitchen table.
My father died at that kitchen table, the day after his birthday, which he spent alone. I often wonder if he was listening to Iz at the time. As a result, I can't listen to Iz without thinking of my father and all the years we wasted. He was a good man. He was a troubled man. As I get older, I can feel his presence in my personality and I no longer balk at the urge to be the clown or write with grandiosity. I have my mother to keep me level and my father to dare to go over the rainbow. I don't listen to that song anymore, because the loss of my Father Unit is more raw now than it was when he died.
But I have the song and the album for when I can listen and smile at how amazed my father was when he first heard it.
There was a song that I introduced to him that he loved so much, I bought him the album it was on. It was "Somewhere over the Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole. He said that the man had the clearest voice of anyone he'd ever heard. He would listen to the album and that particular song repeatedly as he sat at the kitchen table.
My father died at that kitchen table, the day after his birthday, which he spent alone. I often wonder if he was listening to Iz at the time. As a result, I can't listen to Iz without thinking of my father and all the years we wasted. He was a good man. He was a troubled man. As I get older, I can feel his presence in my personality and I no longer balk at the urge to be the clown or write with grandiosity. I have my mother to keep me level and my father to dare to go over the rainbow. I don't listen to that song anymore, because the loss of my Father Unit is more raw now than it was when he died.
But I have the song and the album for when I can listen and smile at how amazed my father was when he first heard it.
That's my word count for the day, most of that achieved early this morning. Like I said, I sort of peter out as the day progresses and it irks me no end. I want to be the writing dynamo the entire day. There's so much I want to say and, while I have the ability to say it, I want commit it to paper. I'm still very much afraid of that decade-long writer's block I suffered in the 90s. Although I know the tell-tale signs of a blockage and act accordingly so it won't hang on to me like a bloodsucking tick, I'm always afraid that it will hang on no matter what, then, voiceless, I will suffer. One thing I'm doing to keep my writer mojo going right now is I'm stopping at a juicy part of the narrative. I so want to keep on writing, but I force myself not to. That way, come morning, I'll fly through the word count and remain in keeping with the atmosphere of the scene to boot.