Since no one but my babies is supposed to read this, then you must be one of my babies. Thank God, you finally found this blog.
Which baby are you?
Little Man, you were only four when I saw you last. You were nine when I wrote this.
Baby J, you had just turned nine. You’re turning fourteen soon, from my perspective.
I don’t know how old either of you are now.
I’m hoping that Baby J finds this soon, but for all I know, it’s been 10 years since I wrote this. Perhaps it’s been 20.
I don’t understand what’s going on.
It doesn’t make any sense that I have not received one picture of you from any relative since all this began. The only things I hear are that you’re doing great.
I can only assume that everyone agrees that I’m not worthy of news. It’s as though people hope I’ll just forget you so we all can move on with our lives.
I’m glad you’re doing great, but generic, hazy news of your awesomeness just isn’t enough. It’s like they’re telling me about two cars I sold — “Oh, they’re running great.”
I’m sorry to be so selfish, but I want to know every detail. I want to know what you’re eating for breakfast and I want to know who’s shirts you wear (from Space Oddity) and I want to know who your friends are and why they’re your friends and I want to know how big your feet are.
I’m sure I’ve written somewhere here in this blog that’s it’s not possible to “ruin your life” or “throw your life away,” but I’ve changed my mind. The conflict between who I thought I was and who the courts and your mother tell me I am is too great.
The fact that my own family doesn’t try to include me in your lives at all I think signals that they agree: I’m a bad person.
Actually, I am a bad person. I’m not capable of doing any normal thing.
I hope you’re less eccentric and more capable that I am because I can tell you that eccentric doesn’t play ball in America except for some odd 1500 people, living in Los Angeles or New York.
Most people have to keep their mind straight for 5 days in a row, at least — the work week. Then they get two off to be crazy.
If you’re a parent, you’ll need to keep your mind straight for about 6570 days in a row for each child.
Here’s what happens to people like me: If you’re not one of the 1500 people who are the very best at being eccentric, or were lucky enough to run into someone who thought they could help exploit the eccentricities for money, then you have to give up on the eccentricities and be assimilated. If you can’t give up the eccentricities (i.e., change) then you must fake it — play the part of the dependable, lovable, employable American worker.
I used to be an actor. Unfortunately, now I’m me.
I’m a bad example. I literally can’t take care of my own shit and at 42 years of age, no can help me (and they wouldn’t anyway)… Someone my age is expected to have become something useful. And, if they haven’t, then they can’t be rehabilitated.
Maybe someone can be rehabilitated. I don’t want to generalize to everyone. Hopefully, you’re not reading this at 42 and figuring out you’re screwed.
Your mother is going to say that it was craziness.
Your grandfather would say it was weakness.
Crazy or weak or stupid or whatever, I am as I made myself.
Perhaps they’re keeping me from knowing anything about you so that I won’t want to see you, and I don’t see you, and hopefully you won’t be anything like me.
You’re going to be like someone else, of course.
Your mother is nothing like me. I used to try to be like she wanted me to be, but doing such a thing is wrong.
Always be yourself. If you find a lover while being yourself, then you don’t have to act for decades on end.
Your adopted father is also nothing like me. I’m sure your family is pleased by that.
He is somewhat insane though, in sort of a self-delusional way. I don’t know in what year you’re reading this, but what happened between him and your mother couldn’t be avoided.
(I’m just poking fun at Tim — he’s one of the few readers of this blog.)
I’ve got to take a break. Sorry, I’m not going to be organizing any of the information here. I don’t have time.
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