Dad’s death
My Dad was a poet all his life. In many ways words were his refuge. I remember feeling after dad died, wait, that’s it? Is that all there is to a life? These few books, records, furniture, clothes and a whole whack of words.
I’ve looked for signs in Dad’s pile of words. A search for a meaning of some kind. Poetry? Life’s lessons? Nonsense? I’ve concluded there is mostly the latter…
Reflecting on what I am doing: I don’t really know what I am doing, yet I am doing it anyway.
I suppose, I’m gathering evidence of being alive.
I inherited from my dad a certain restlessness. Some might say curiosity. Or impatience. More than not, I feel I have tempered this potential negative impulse to work for me.
I want to make my mark, draw my lines, build my fort.
At the same time, I endeavour to remain hungry, nimble, always looking, searching. To remain open to possibilities. As well as be distracted by all the stupid things invented by white people to try and deal with the dread of life.