Death

My son asked me this morning, "Can I die?" A pretty heavy question for a three year old to inquire about and even heavier for a father to answer before he's had any coffee. Was he being precocious or aping something he heard elsewhere?

I would like to think that the same predisposition to darkness that I have would not befall this beautiful little boy of mine. In as much as I enjoy seeing aspects of my personality manifesting in him, this isn't a happy prospect. I hope that he avoids the mopey and gloomy affectations that are considered more or less normal these days, like so many little Hot Topic clones.

When I was in third grade I was entered into a county-wide writing contest at school. I think it was like an early version of the super-short story contests that are fairly popular now (this would have been circa 1979 or so). While just about every other kid wrote something about their families or pets or a toy, I wrote about the smell of burning bodies during trench warfare (I think I'd recently smelled the crematorium in town and it reminded me of barbecue).

I did win something (a McDonald's gift certificate, I think) and was published in some kind of literary magazine, but I really think this highlights what a freaky little kid I was. While I don't want my boy to be just another nondescript kid that fades into the wallpaper, he doesn't need to be the sore thumb his dad was. I'd really like to avoid the common parental curse of "one day I hope you'll have a child that acts just like you."

My answer to his question about death was "Everything that is alive will eventually die, buddy." But by the time I had answered him he was asking me if he could play Angry Birds on the iPad and if I knew the name of the red birds in it. So he isn't very morbid for extended periods.

Test drive

I've really put off doing this sort of thing for quite a long time. Mostly because blogging seems to me to be so much navel gazing self-indulgence that I really saw no point in joining the fray. My friends and family have insisted, encouraged and demanded that I try this. But I'm up my own ass enough to know that sharing the view isn't as grand a thing as other folks seem to think it might be. Yet I still set this blog up years ago... so I am hypocrite too.

I quit writing and grandly thinking of myself as "a writer" a long time ago. I stopped because I felt like I had hit a wall or come to the flat-Earth edge of whatever talent I possessed. Writing was just so much lying on paper or living out this alter-ego fantasy where I was funny and clever and said things I would never utter in person. I was writing about loves I'd never felt and dramas that I hadn't experienced. So much empty posturing and artifice. I decided that I could be full of shit enough in real life that I didn't need to do it on paper too. So I quit and went off into the world to be whoever I was and am and would be.

Circuitously, that brings me back around to sitting on a couch pretending that whatever I think is some golden apple that others just HAVE to taste.