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October 15, 1994
If I were going to write a book about this...first of all - who would read it? But - nonetheless - if I were going to pen it for me - or anyone interested in the twisted workings of my youth - I would have to start out by saying: All three of them were bar tenders. Seemed kind of funny since I never really did know how to handle myself at a bar. Is that funny - or ironic - or just plain sad?
Every time the trap is set I walk right in. I know the way it works; I've been in it before - tasted the bait - allowed myself to be poisoned by it, allowed a part of me to die in it. Then I've struggled to be free of it and once I actually was free ...SNAP - there I was again. I cannot reveal their names - for they are innocent. I am not their accuser. I am not their victim - I am one that gave them permission. I am amazed how easily I am snared. It's as if I am being hunted - and I know it - and I like it! My hunter knows me - and this is the best part. He knows my weaknesses - how to keep me in the darkness barely alive. I'm there.
It's so funny to me. Yet I cannot laugh. I have no laughter here.
My God - is this a hunt? Do you see me? Are you with me? Is it you? So predictable are my own moves that my hunter knows where to place a trap and what kind of bait to use. How can I survive?
There is a part of me that longs for a part of him. Never the whole - just a part. Promises - promises all of the promises. I never did get to jet ski again. To me that was his greatest gift. the feeling of riding on top of the water, overcoming my fear, the warmth of the sun on my face, him riding way ahead of me - showing me the way. I looked towards the tiny shoreline and wished I could see my father standing there. "Look at me, Daddy. I can be happy again. I still feel life. There is life again."
My God, he gave me a memory and I will cherish him always for that - that and the many others that littered our three year relationship.
Remember the one who told me I was adorable. How long has it been since someone has said that I was adorable, Daddy? If I could hear those words again. He said it like a script. My, my, my, the hunter knows me well. I'm on to you... aren't I? It's taken me a couple turns, but I think I'm on to you now.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Diary Entry 10.3.94
October 10, 1994
I embraced my sorrow; I held it tightly with all my strength and it engulfed me. We cradled each other until morning and I awoke more aware of life.
I am haunted by ghosts that tip toe through the attic of my memory. The three of us are in the back seat. silent. Dressed in Sunday best. My father drives as if called onward by the chiming bells. Even the sweetness of amazing grace chimes cannot compete with even the echo of their hollering. My mother's head is bowed and she sniffles quietly. Playing once again the Sunday song of getting to the church for what...
Driven far - some 15 years far - from that white Plymouth car, I'm in the front seat of a white truck, and I drive alongside with him to church - no chiming bells play onward - yet the music from my childhood Sunday song comes to life - yelling and tears - but this time no back seat little ears. Getting to the church for what? - And I feel the strength of the arm...the arm that I watched come around my mother's neck to pull her toward him in apology - and I realize - she was exhausted of trying - and yet so hopeful. So I slide over and succumb to the same reason why she never left.
I embraced my sorrow; I held it tightly with all my strength and it engulfed me. We cradled each other until morning and I awoke more aware of life.
I am haunted by ghosts that tip toe through the attic of my memory. The three of us are in the back seat. silent. Dressed in Sunday best. My father drives as if called onward by the chiming bells. Even the sweetness of amazing grace chimes cannot compete with even the echo of their hollering. My mother's head is bowed and she sniffles quietly. Playing once again the Sunday song of getting to the church for what...
Driven far - some 15 years far - from that white Plymouth car, I'm in the front seat of a white truck, and I drive alongside with him to church - no chiming bells play onward - yet the music from my childhood Sunday song comes to life - yelling and tears - but this time no back seat little ears. Getting to the church for what? - And I feel the strength of the arm...the arm that I watched come around my mother's neck to pull her toward him in apology - and I realize - she was exhausted of trying - and yet so hopeful. So I slide over and succumb to the same reason why she never left.
Diary Entry 8/94
from my diary: April 1994 - April 1997
A tender memory never loses its flavor and smells sweeter every time it is inhaled.
So? Where do I begin? The beginning would be nice, but I'm not quite sure where that would be. So many little ingredients got thrown into this stew it's hard to say what went in first...and if there was even a moment when I decided - when someone decided what was going to be made.
I'd have to begin with my childhood because it's my favorite flavor. I could chew on moments of it all day long. And from time to time I wander through the kitchen and find myself rummaging through the cupboards looking for a moment to savor once again.
I never knew we were poor until my mother said that we were some years after we had struggled through hand-me-downs and patch 'em ups.
One particular Christmas Mom ad Dad were having a party. I could hear the music from my bedroom where I rested on my pillow wide awake. I could catch a glimpse of people dancing in their fancy holiday clothes. I imagined myself to be a beautiful princess who would walk into their midst and inspire them all with my graceful dancing. Daddy came in just then and kissed my forehead and asked if I was alright. I remember thinking that he left the party just to see if I was okay. He left the dancing for me.
A tender memory never loses its flavor and smells sweeter every time it is inhaled.
So? Where do I begin? The beginning would be nice, but I'm not quite sure where that would be. So many little ingredients got thrown into this stew it's hard to say what went in first...and if there was even a moment when I decided - when someone decided what was going to be made.
I'd have to begin with my childhood because it's my favorite flavor. I could chew on moments of it all day long. And from time to time I wander through the kitchen and find myself rummaging through the cupboards looking for a moment to savor once again.
I never knew we were poor until my mother said that we were some years after we had struggled through hand-me-downs and patch 'em ups.
One particular Christmas Mom ad Dad were having a party. I could hear the music from my bedroom where I rested on my pillow wide awake. I could catch a glimpse of people dancing in their fancy holiday clothes. I imagined myself to be a beautiful princess who would walk into their midst and inspire them all with my graceful dancing. Daddy came in just then and kissed my forehead and asked if I was alright. I remember thinking that he left the party just to see if I was okay. He left the dancing for me.
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