My Father is dying and I am leaving...

I go willingly, though not entirely by choice. If it were left to me, I would remain at his side searching for ways to deflect some small pleasure his way. He is the person most responsible for my understanding how important joy is in this life, however he is also responsible for placing in charge siblings who see no place for me in my father's life. Neither sibling is vile by any stretch, and their behavior underlines how "the path to hell is paved with good intentions."

It is not their hell to which I am referring, though by their behavior, it is clear they are suffering; it is the deprivation of my presence in my father's world - this has caused him hideous, unnecessary discomfort. Yet it would be consistent with his life and his philosophy as an existentialist. He made these choices and by g_d, he is going to see them through. About this time, I'd imagine he is wanting some help from me, for from what I have gathered my siblings are content to allow him the sanctity of his own solitude - they show up when... ever?

Okay, so I'm not as reconciled to the facts as I'd like to think, this is probably why I have been marginalized in his world, that dirty stink of the loud and the imperfect which seems to follow me around like dirty dishes that just won't stay clean. The most solid response I can make to my exclusion from my father's end days is as Bob Dylan said, "I"ll step back..." However, the perversely stubborn man inside of me, will also honor Pop's admonitions - "Don't ever change; don't stop writing," ergo this maiden blog.

I am leaving Southern California, a change that is a long time coming. My future is shorter than my past and that inspires a certain resolve in terms of lifestyle choices. As much comfort as it might provide my aging Mother, the likelihood of enduring what has occurred regarding Pop's dotage is not something I will repeat. I am discussing this with her and she understands unhappily that there is a measure of family pathology which, possibly, is not entirely manifested in my person.

So how to honor the privilege of having been introduced into the creative life by two capable and in their own ways, conflicted people? Naturally, I create. In some form or another for the past 30+ years I have emulated, not one, but both parents. Through this process I have extruded after a fashion my own sense of self which is not obliged, nor yoked, to the destiny of either parent. Whether this autonomy will suffice in any karmic way for the travail and misery which has been intertwined with the ineffable pleasure of joy and rectitude one finds in attempting to reconcile two wildly disparate paths will only be known after my own demise, for if I've learned anything from this life Art is my greatest hope of being heard.