Friday, September 27, 2002
Who’s been eating my porridge?
Email from the father figure this morning informs me that he won’t read dogpoet anymore. Going from knowing very little about me to knowing too much was a tad difficult for him, I take it.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, that his curiosity won’t get the better of him again someday, why do I still feel kinda yucky?
Could it be that I know he read the entire campfire, all ten months of archives included? (thanks for that questionable gift, Sitemeter)
Yeah, because now he knows more. More than I do about him. Much, much more. And I mean the real, interior stuff, not the daily minutiae. I asked for it, putting it up on the Internet, but it doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with the consequences.
The Tattooed Monk called last night as I sat in a funk; resistant to all expressions of friendly “help,” “support,” etc. After awhile he got me talking. Here in my hand I have my dad’s apologies and a request to move forward, but I resist. It became clear to me after enough poking and prodding that my identity is heavily invested with the energy it took to become independent of my father. A ten-year old boy decided that if his father couldn’t “be there,” then the father couldn’t have him: not the real him, not the inside him. Twenty-one years of independence have had their effect. He’s asking me now to relinquish that identity, to give myself to him. Oh lord, I’m resistant. Maybe I can just give him Secret Agent Fuzzy Kitten.
