The Father of CanCan

imageSome days I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know who I am or how I am, in the sense of “How are you?”, because until I’ve gone out and started negotiating the world, I’m the girl in the bubble. I wake up, think, drink coffee, write, and think some more. I might think I’m on top of it, and out I go, only to find that in fact I’m kind of spaced out, possibly even bumbling, and not interacting well. Maybe this is true for everyone who lives alone. I’m not OF the world until I’m IN the world…and that’s how I stay grounded. That’s why I’m grateful to have a business (well, two, actually). Business keeps my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds and my hat in my hand.

I think it might otherwise be possible to float away on a stream of reverie, to be caught now and again talking to myself, acting out the story in my head. My dad used to do this all the time. Greg was a hedonist, sensualist, addict, dreamer, music lover, animal doter, escape artist. I admire him greatly. But I have too much of my no nonsense mom in me to surrender utterly to my daddy genes. Luckily, many would say. But, other than feeling judged, as he did, my dad had more fun than most.

And I think I inherited that pesky high degree of aaaaaargh *sensitivity* from dad. Dad could sit with his headphones on for hours, tears rolling down his face, involved in who knows what epic movie in his head. He was very tender-hearted and way too sentimental for someone who, in the main, didn’t trouble himself with the impact of his behavior on others…

Oh well. Those who knew Greg loved him. You couldn’t help it, he was smart and playful and charming, and he had a magical twinkle. He was a golden guy.

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