So, Julia and I broke up. So I’m not getting married anytime soon and the rank of ‘Father’ has been torn from my sleeve. My father showed me a few pages from his journal last week and told me that I should keep one. I thought of you, Dear Readers, and felt ashamed for leaving this blog lay fallow while I have been wrestling with my relationship for the past few months. I just don’t actually like writing about myself.
And though it’s not an excuse, though it was perhaps an omen, my trusty TVC-15 slipped from its case and hit the cold concrete a few weeks ago and I still haven’t gotten around to replacing it. I’m currently using an ancient Macbook that nobody was using at the Clown Factory that is hooked to an external hard drive containing the most critical stuff from the old TVC-15, so I can still write, except that it’s really slaved to the Clown Factory network so once the RAM fills up stuff starts crashing so it’s a pain in the ass to write. But that’s a first world problem if there ever was; besides, my annoyance with this is overwhelmed by my gratitude for my job at the Clown Factory. Seriously. It’s a very happy place to work and I’m always surrounded by smiling faces.
My eyes were open and I was totally aware; no, I knew this is how it was going to go. It was obvious and cliche and typical in both mono and stereo; any outside observer could see the inevitable trajectory of us was as obvious as that of a dropped stone. Still, I bet against all that even knowing that I was going to lose. It was almost like I was following a script, but one that was a first draft written by a committee of hacks. Seriously. The fictional smudging I perform here when recounting events only makes them more believable and the full truths are utterly unacceptable as fiction.
For example, due to chance and happenstance I am living in a condo that is about two hundred feet away from the unit my ex-wife and I were living in when we divorced. That’s right, we broke the engagement in basically the same building I broke my marriage in. I have lived in seven different cities since then but apparently my karma had other things in mind. On the one hand, it is magical thinking to place too much emphasis on coincidences such as this, but on the other hand, what the fuck, universe? Because when I think too much about it I start to notice things like how the dinner I had with Julia on Saturday where we discussed how things would go from here also happened to be what would have been my 23rd wedding anniversary, and then I start to worry about how paranoia runs in my family.
The thing is I played the role and walked through the scenes and did my part because of him. When she got pregnant she told me before she told his father. When he threw her out when the baby was four months old it was my house they came to live in. I didn’t want her to move from the couch to my bed. I didn’t want to think of the boy as my son.
What we think we want and what we do are different things.
I have so much more to say but not right now.
I’m going to the Mayweathers for dinner! NOM!