That Song by Eric Clapton, or, Daddy

Ah, Wednesday. A good day. I figured out that sex scene for my short story--it's actually written better than the rest of the story, so I have to figure out how to lay that template on the rest of the piece, so to speak.

There were no protests in the Mission during my writing group. The angriest person I encountered was a guy yelling at a beggar, "I already GAVE you a quarter, asshole!" Not a bad night at all. The weather was warm. I had just inspired two writers. I was headed home to look up library hours for Thursday.

Then my brother called. My brother only calls on weeknights for three reasons: he's coming into town, he's bored driving back from L.A., or my father has done something monumental.

By monumental I do not mean things like "won the lottery" or "gotten married." Monumental usually = hospital.

What I know at the time of this writing is that he is in ICU due to a possible heart attack (the doctor won't confirm but my father thinks that's what it was), gall stones, and kidney stones. He's getting all of the tests on Thursday. [Editor's Note: I'm writing this Wednesday night. I don't know what my frame of mind will be Thursday.] My brother gave me the low-down. I listened attentively, asked questions in all the right places, and then gave my brother the funny story about "Desert Solitaire" to cheer him up.

I'm not flying to Ohio. And neither is my brother.

Yet.

My brother would have no trouble, except he's not good at care-taking. My father has a girlfriend who can take care of him, and I think my brother is relying on that. And then there's me.

God, if I gave you the entire story between my father and I, you would still be reading this damn post a week from now. It all boils down to this--I have to love him. My mother asked me to. That doesn't mean that I have to go home--that's a no-win, especially with me unemployed and with our relationship so strained. Going home would just upset him. I'd get off the plane and that disputed heart-attack of my father's would be a confirmed one in about twenty minutes. "You don't have to like him," my mother said. "But you do have to love him. He's your father." I told the Airman this story once, and he gritted his teeth. "She's right, you know." I glared at him, but he had every right to tell me this--his father was no prince, either. But he was still his father.

So, I have to love him. I think on him like I try to think on all of the other "princes," the men that I've been intimate with who, in one form or another, pop up in my life wanting to know why I walked away from someone who "really cared for me" (referring to them--strange, but they have wives they can go back to. I've moved ON, already). I was pestered by one of these princes while I was in Carlsbad--he sent me an e-mail. I went about my day...fished with my brother, wrote, read, and then jumped in the pool. "Please," I whispered to Prince E-mail, "please please PLEASE let me go. Don't make me get mean..." And I remembered something from Liz Gilbert. (This is where it pays off tremendously to read and watch films.) "Love him, then, send him light, and let him go." And I swam in that pool and let him go. I filed the e-mail. I never responded.

I was thinking of my father in that regard earlier this evening while I was getting ready for bed. I don't wish my father dead--he has the power to make some people happy in the world, and therefore still contributes to society. I knew I had to love him. I don't like him much, but I have to love him. "Well," whispers the page, "love him, then, send him light, and let him go."

Sending you love tonight, Daddy. Wishing you well. Letting someone else take on the rest.

Onward.

P.S. - This is where today's title for the blog series Life For Rent comes from. Waiting for my/Prince to come. [Editor's Note: Barring any last-minute trips east, this blog will resume on Monday. Have a good weekend, all.]

One of Those Songs From Glee, or, Moving Forward

It's no secret.

I...HATE...FACEBOOK.

I wish I could love it. I wish I could use it to the best of my ability, like the manipulative love affair that I have with Twitter. But there's something about Facebook that spells the following to me:

• I'm a failure. No husband, no kids, no traditional employment (heck, no employment that involves the rich and famous).
• I'm unimportant. No comments = no one gives a crap that I exist.

Which is why I'm trying not to sign in to it. It hit me yesterday, thinking on it, that I'm fighting a few things here with Facebook:

• Very few of my friends are readers. Most just play games or post pictures.
• Very few of my friends have the same amount of friends that I have or fewer. I can't imagine how they keep with their friends, especially those at more than 100 friends. I have a feeling that in order to get their attention I would either have to shut down my FB account (tempting...) or threaten something rash (also tempting).

But I'm trying to move in another direction instead.

The new goal is to not check FB, and instead start working on other sites that focus more writing, like Gather and Twitter. I can post things remotely, but I don't need to check on it to see if anyone said hi. Most people don't say hi. And friends who enjoy me the way I am talk to me in e-mail, on Twitter, or via text.

Less posts, no visits, and no letting folks know about the new blog posts. The list won't read them anyway. The link will stay up. A diamond in the rough for the diehards, should they exist. My life in Facebook will show up by remote feed from other websites, that help me to rise up and celebrate life. Not this moronic, constant, popularity contest on-line.

(A remarkable coincidence, since Zuckerberg seemed to create this idea from being socially rejected. Maybe that's why I think it sucks...it spawned from pain and didn't nurture healing.)

Please, FB, let me quit you.

P.S. - This is where the title of this post of Life For Rent comes from. This is obviously not the Glee version, but I love this version and couldn't find a clip from Glee that wasn't just audio. Enjoy, and onward, dear reader.