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8:18 a.m. - 2005-05-29
Nice Little Apartment Rant
And so, moving back to my childhood home following the death of my father in 2003 seems to have issued engraved invitations to every ghost that had, over time, misplaced my address. As ghosts tend to have their way with me, I continue ...

I stood with Meridee in my conventional Sears' Early American style living room surveying the damage. Fred had moved to a small apartment in Montrose. Divorce proceedings were in progress. He recommended that I keep the house, but my father insisted that I would not be able to handle upkeep. I was barraged with such questions as, "Who's going to put a new roof on when you need it? Who's going to mow the lawn? Who will replace the water heater?" Thinking back, I suppose there were answers to these questions. Actually, Merideee, who was quite self-sufficient and no doubt from pioneer stock, offered to do all three and had the testosterone to back it up. But I was overwhelmed, sad and exhilerated at the prospect of freedom all at the same time. I really didn't want the house. It represented my mistake, my self sabotage, my cage. And so, impulsively I called a furniture buyer and sold the whole lot (including an old piano) for practically nothing. The plan was for my two year old son and I moved to my parents' house. They would have an extension built for us which they described as "my own little apartment where I could come and go as I chose". The day we arrived, my father and I sat in his car outside the house so that we could talk privately. He told me that "Fred is a nice guy, but just not for you". For a moment, I felt almost understood. As though he finally saw my poet's heart and knew that there was another life awaiting me. A life in which my unique gifts would be expressed and recognized. A life of uncharted paths. Passion rather than predictability. Reciprocal love that risks all in order to be really known by another.
I was soon to learn that the pithy epitaph to my marriage, "nice guy, but not for you" was to apply to anyone who had the poor judgment to want me. The unabating pain of growing up under the watchful, sheltering and protective eyes of those who never saw me, knew me or noticed my slow and steady withdrawal and eventual absence had predisposed me to inordinate loyalty towards anyone on whose radar I actually appeared. And so, true to my parents' expectations of me, I didn't so much select as accept a series of what my father called "dependents". A modern day version of the "pimply faced adolescents" who threatened him so in my teenage years. While living in "my little apartment in which I could come and go", I was told by my father that he had checked with a lawyer at Lockheed and knew how to take custody of my son should I 'hook up' with one of these 'losers'. While the Easy Rider poster over my bed screamed freedom, I began to realize that I was simply in a different cage and one that was fast becoming far more dangerous to my spirit. I felt distrusted and distrustful. Yes, I was going dancing on weekends. Yes, there was a Cajun guy with a gap between his teeth who was 'separated', too, and worked for Delta Airlines and wanted to take me for a few days to the Bahamas posing as his wife so as to fly for free. Yes, my judgment was impaired. I had pretty much never been out of Burbank, unless you count Hollywood, and of course it was thrilling to be invited on such an escapade. Of course, I didn't go. Of course,I would never risk losing custody of my son. But some essential innocense was lost. My sense of my parents' love for me became severely compromised. It was no longer just a matter of my misplaced poetic perceptions. They really did not know me. They could not pick out my heart from a lineup of hardened criminals. They didn't know my intentions, my hurts, my disappointments, my fledgling dreams. They simply didn't know me. And they didn't care to. I felt like the unsightly baggage that they had to assume in order to have my son in the home. The package deal that was better than nothing. I felt prey to the old 'bait and switch', frying pan/fire, 20/20 hindsight and every horrible cliche that told me I had made yet another disastrous error in judgment that had once again set the course of my life hopelessly reeling in the wrong direction. I could not seem to undo the original sin of self betrayal. Polonius' advice to his son was, "And this above all, to thine own self be true. Thou cans't then be false to any man". My father's advice to me was, "He's a nice guy, but not for you". And, wanting his love (which included proving him right) above all else in life, time after time, failure after failure, I obediently complied.

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