the trucking life

Sometimes I wonder why the stars aligned to bring my father into my life. He has caused a lot of heartache in his time. A lot of it is derived from the sort of misunderstandings that sensitive people collect along the way, but some of it is downright dirty lashing out on his part.

I have never condoned the actions of my father; both present or past. To say that I understand them, that I can have empathy for the sort of pain he feels first, well that would be closer to it.

As he faces another incredible struggle with his health, one that amazes and astounds doctors at his stubbornness, his sheer will to survive, his ability to tolerate so much physical pain. He can do it because he has suffered so many pains in his heart and mind, the body is just a thing. His heart is a black hole of hate and desperation and profound and complicated love.

I worry for him. I love him. I feel guilty sometimes for doing so, but I can't help myself.

As I contemplated applying to Iowa again, I realized that my manuscript had to be material that was a bit more universal than a goth girl working in a liquor store on clark st (not that there's anything wrong with that...). As I sifted through some of my notes and half told stories, I found a beautiful piece I'd written to accompany a photograph my father gave me on one of my rare visits with him. The piece itself was ignored by my instructor at the time, a guy who writes light hearted fiction who thoroughly enjoyed the goth girl. I assumed that must mean the piece about my father wasn't very good.

Most of the time when I read things I've written all I can see is a terrible writer. I cringe at every awkward metaphor, each lengthy sentence, poor use of grammar, etc. This piece, despite flaws of those kind really still had a sense of life, a sense of awe, a sense of curiosity. I wanted to know more. I wanted to write more.

Has my father come into my life to give me the one thing I have always wanted? His stories of living the trucking life, traveling with a carnival, trying to make it big somehow, is this his gift to me? In my heart I know that what kept me journalling for so long was knowing he was there to read it. I always thought I got my sense of writing from my mom, but in a lot of ways, it's my dad that has nourished my writing.