I don't contend that my dreams have any significant meaning, nor do I believe that they foreshadow the future. I think they just say say, Tim, you haven't been worried in a while...let's remind ourselves of what that feels like. It's effective. I bolted right out of bed, and shivered my way downstairs to make sure my daughter was still breathing and in her bed and not out wondering the streets of what must have been Aspen or Telluride during the turn of the century (except with leopards). And she's there. She's always where I left her. And if she wasn't, I'm certain everyone would be panicked and upset.
My daughter is not someone I take for granted. That's something I'm supposed to say, because she's my daughter, and I love her to death, and I feel like every moment with her is like a learning experience for both of us. It's something the socially-agreed-upon definition of a "good" father should say, and his actions should reflect that designation. And I believe they do. I believe they do enough that an outsider's perception is irrelevant to me.
Still, there's moments where I do. And before I get booed off of the stage...
She comes with certainties. Ones that we've created together, because it implies structure, and routine, and boundaries, and all the good things that children are taught as soon as they learn to walk. Being a jaded thirtysomething I believe that these values are embedded at such an early age so they will easily settle into a 9-to-5 job. I'm kidding. Sort of. I don't believe that corporations have sponsored child-rearing, at least.
But there are large swaths of my day where I know exactly where she is and what she's doing, even if she's not necessarily visible from where I'm sitting (I'm always sitting). And, of course, most of these moments are times where she is at school, or at her mother's house, or in theater or karate class. Ironically (I'm pretending that I'm using this adverb appropriately), these are also the moments where she is most likely to break those routines, whether on purpose or through some accident...or worse.
Such a situation has never happened, thankfully, because I would be a total helicopter parent. I would be worse than my parents, who I believe hired a cadre of private eyes to watch my every move when I was not in the house (pro bono, probably...my folks didn't have a lot of disposable income). I don't knock my parents for being protective, especially not now, because even when I am absolutely certain of my daughter's whereabouts my brain conjures up a dozen terrifying scenarios of what could happen to her. I'm sure this is just part of being a father, or a mother, and it explains why my hair started going grey before I made it through three decades on this planet.
------------
I like surprises.
I'm sure this is earth-shattering. And such a oversimplified statement that I could have just as easily said things are neat! or I have ideas.
Sitting in my bedroom/office/studio/killing floor I can envision dozens of potentials. A tornado could localize over my roof. A limo could blow a tire on the street and out steps <insert famous name here> and he/she wants to <insert thing they are famous for here> on my porch for a bit while waiting for AAA. My bedroom door opens and there is <insert person I would want in my bedroom here> with a bottle of <insert beverage here>. Piles of gold doubloons (a currency we should resuscitate) could suddenly pour out of the air ducts. My tax return finally shows up, hand delivered by an IRS agent along with a written apology from <insert whoever is in charge of the IRS here>.
Opulent possibilities, for sure, but somehow my brain has concluded that their likelihood is greater than zero (and no, I don't play the lottery)...and most of those situations are ones where my involvement is negligible. I don't have to be doing anything for any of those to happen. That's all fine and good, and also kind of stupid, because luck is stupid. Harvey Dent and a bunch of football coaches agree.
I am, for all intents, a moderately stable human being, because I have created certainties, too. Some of them for my own benefit, some for my daughter's, and some for reasons unknown. It's that third one that needs work, because stability for stability's sake is boring. me. to. tears.
It's boring YOU to tears, too, dearest readers. Or, it should be. I am not a purveyor of fringe knowledge or unique experience. Not on here. I don't have any you-have-got-to-hear-about-this stories. I haven't done anything that you haven't done, whether exactly or some permutation that is close enough to the real McCoy.
I crave some aberration. And not in the familial sense (which I suppose is what the first part of this nonsense was about), but in something else. In anything else. Why? Why does that seem so imperative now?
Because it would make me feel in control. I could, with confidence, say something different is happening, and it's because of me, and not circumstance or an exception that proves the rule or the white noise in the scatter plot.
My father is like clockwork. I can sum up his day in a paragraph, with a few sentences dedicated to "sometimes he'll play bridge with Mom" and "he might have a doctor's appointment, though". When he was younger, he drove a motorcycle across the country. And back again, through Canada. He built a dune buggy. HE BUILT A DUNE BUGGY. And drove it around the salt flats in Death Valley. He opened a restaurant (and ran it into the ground). He drove a semi. And about a dozen other things that would make you do a double-take. And these are all stories that he told, to me, to my friends, really, to anyone that would listen. And hidden behind his incredibly tedious and long-winded tales was pride. You could barely sense it, but it was there.
I am like my dad in a lot of ways. We're both desperately left-brained. We're both patient when it comes to educating. We both seem to attract the attention of the little kids in the family. We both enjoy silence in long spurts. We're both incredibly defensive of our respective tastes in the arts. But, at least right now, Dad lived. He lived way more than I have. And I think that helps him justify a somewhat quiet life now.
I don't know if he was trying to educate me, when he would retell the anecdotes of his younger days that makes him more interesting than that Dos Equis guy. But he has.
Be. Different.
Opulent possibilities, for sure, but somehow my brain has concluded that their likelihood is greater than zero (and no, I don't play the lottery)...and most of those situations are ones where my involvement is negligible. I don't have to be doing anything for any of those to happen. That's all fine and good, and also kind of stupid, because luck is stupid. Harvey Dent and a bunch of football coaches agree.
I am, for all intents, a moderately stable human being, because I have created certainties, too. Some of them for my own benefit, some for my daughter's, and some for reasons unknown. It's that third one that needs work, because stability for stability's sake is boring. me. to. tears.
It's boring YOU to tears, too, dearest readers. Or, it should be. I am not a purveyor of fringe knowledge or unique experience. Not on here. I don't have any you-have-got-to-hear-about-this stories. I haven't done anything that you haven't done, whether exactly or some permutation that is close enough to the real McCoy.
I crave some aberration. And not in the familial sense (which I suppose is what the first part of this nonsense was about), but in something else. In anything else. Why? Why does that seem so imperative now?
Because it would make me feel in control. I could, with confidence, say something different is happening, and it's because of me, and not circumstance or an exception that proves the rule or the white noise in the scatter plot.
My father is like clockwork. I can sum up his day in a paragraph, with a few sentences dedicated to "sometimes he'll play bridge with Mom" and "he might have a doctor's appointment, though". When he was younger, he drove a motorcycle across the country. And back again, through Canada. He built a dune buggy. HE BUILT A DUNE BUGGY. And drove it around the salt flats in Death Valley. He opened a restaurant (and ran it into the ground). He drove a semi. And about a dozen other things that would make you do a double-take. And these are all stories that he told, to me, to my friends, really, to anyone that would listen. And hidden behind his incredibly tedious and long-winded tales was pride. You could barely sense it, but it was there.
I am like my dad in a lot of ways. We're both desperately left-brained. We're both patient when it comes to educating. We both seem to attract the attention of the little kids in the family. We both enjoy silence in long spurts. We're both incredibly defensive of our respective tastes in the arts. But, at least right now, Dad lived. He lived way more than I have. And I think that helps him justify a somewhat quiet life now.
I don't know if he was trying to educate me, when he would retell the anecdotes of his younger days that makes him more interesting than that Dos Equis guy. But he has.
Be. Different.
No comments:
Post a Comment