but my love for the man and the words grew long before i flowered in the summer sun. every word on every page of every book was one step closer to my father's heart. my father was not a cold man, but he was a busy man, a tired man. and though he journeyed home each night from work, the distance between us measured far beyond the walls of that small suburban house. and, so, i grew to treasure all the things that were dear to him. words and music and math, to sum it all up. such is every daughter's struggle, i suppose.
but, now, so many years later, i come to learn that a father's love is truly unconditional. and such should be any true love. but hard to break is the habit of manipulating my interests to match those of the people i care about. i cannot think of one thing i have discovered and learned to love on my own. i cannot be sure if anything i call a passion is truly a love of mine or just someone else's passion which i have commandeered as my own.
perhaps, such is the plight of all men. we cannot help but be influenced by the people around us. we hate the things our enemies do and we cherish the actions of our friends.
i don't know.
this was supposed to be a narration my father, but the plot got twisted somewhere. like always. and i came back to love and isolation. typical cannon and fugue.
i wanted to say someone ought to write a book about that man and how that someone shouldn't be me, because i am no poet, historian, journalist or wordsmith.
but ol' jack made me remember how dad's fantastically raucous stories rolled out from his mouth amongst the thick cigarette smoke, thick like winter's breath.
i wish i didn't hate every fucking simile i ever penned. except the one about the twin dashed lines of the divided highway stretching down the faded asphalt like some faded pair of levi's stretched across the american midwest.
oh, how i'd wretch if i read again that jumbled trash i pumped out when i still called myself a writer! i tried so fucking hard and, the harder i tried, the worse it was.
coming back to the point, maybe that was the beauty of beat all along. no plan, no destination. just a pen and the paper, documenting that mystic journey of the mind that knows no boundaries and creates a rhythym all its own.