I Hate Divorce (from 2005)

I hate divorce. I hate the angst and heartbreak its victims must endure. To have thrown one's everything--might, mind, strength, and heart--into the creation of a solitaire unit to only have it regurgitated and vomited back into one's face is the ultimate insult.

The shock of hearing one's own worthlessness from the other--that despite having given one's all toward the good and well-being of this concept of oneness formed from the two--is devastating at the very least.

Nothing more needs saying after hearing the otherwise two innocent words It's over. Nothing in this life ever prepared me for those two simple words. Indeed, I had had horrible bouts with depression, paralyzing insecurity (not just during adolescence), and confusion. For at least a decade of my life (I am now 32) these three components combined and proved to be the rule of everyday life. The exceptions occurred while playing with my children or being alone.

I was about eight when my own parents divorced. Oddly, I have no negative remembrance of it. I am grateful for them for the manner in which they handled it. Yet, I remember many occasions on which I felt envious of friends and peers who, unlike me, had their families intact and spent their time together. Though a few years later, Mom would remarry and my brothers and I would have more of a "normal" family, I was still envious.

In fact, I still am. I regret growing up without my father at home. I imagine that for others whose parents have stayed together, there exists a firmer ground for them to stand upon. I imagine an anchor, so to speak, that can always be lowered during stormy times and trouble.

But there is more envy than this, I regret time not spent playing catch together in the backyard. Or times when Dad did not come to see me play ball (he lived 4 hours away). Doubtless there would've been times when he would've shown me how to just do things--things I would've hated doing, like painting the house or fixing the car, yet things I would always remember because "I learned it from my Dad." What I wouldn't give now to have been able to hear him say, "I'm gonna put my foot up your ass!" a few more times than our eight years together allowed him to. (By the way, he never once kept that promise.)

My greatest source of concern is my children. They will now have thrust upon them much of what my brothers and I had upon each of us. Though circumstances are different, times change, and they seem to have many advantages which we did not, one fact remains the same. Their mother and father will not ever live with them together again. Talk about finality.

Divorced/Separated Dads: Refused from Seeing Own Children?

Just curious...Any Dads out there have any kids with an ex-spouse who is using your children against you? Do you try to visit your children and find it difficult and contentious when even your own blood looks up at you and says "Daddy, I don't want to go with you today?" When one ex bashes the other one in front of the child(ren) or uses them to manipulate the other ex, this is called Parental Alienation (PA). Parental Alienation Syndrome (PAS) is the affect that this behavior may have on any children involved. According to the material I've read on this topic, the custodial parent is by far and away the greatest perpetrator of this child abuse. Although fathers are sometimes guilty of this form of abuse, mothers form the greater majority.

I write this because it sucks when things happen to you but you can't quite explain them. You know, when something stinks but you can't quite discern the smell. For all of you men (or women) who have been on the receiving end of this abuse: look it up. Do a google search or two on "parental alienation (syndrome)." There is hope, and it's also nice to know there's a name for all the injustice being done to you and your children.

Emily slows me down

Emily Dickinson is the perfect antidote to a racing mind before bedtime. I love to read, ruminate, and theorize--and no, I'm not bragging. My problem is that I rarely read for leisure (right now I'm reading Whittaker Chambers' Witness--a tough one--and a couple other political books that energize my mind more than slow it down). I just have no interest in reading pop fiction--I am, after all, (ahem) an highly intelligent being and far above such low-fray materiél.

So when I stumbled upon my old, trusty, worn and weathered book of poetry by Ms. Dickinson--actually, it's barely left the bookshelf since I bought it just two years ago--I grabbed it, put it by my bed, and have read it for the past three nights just before hitting the lights.

This may sound stuffy, but I really do like her stuff. It's very simple and beautiful--sort of like listening to light Debussy before bed. Just two suggestions if you've never read her before: don't think too hard; and read it as if a child had written it. There's an element of innocence throughout her stuff. Some of it is really sublime.

Van Gogh rocks! (originally from 2005)

Van Gogh rocks! Have you ever just stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of a bookstore, public building or any place you just happened to be when Vincent Van Gogh jumped right out and grabbed you, forcing you to take notice? I have. And not just a few times, either. In fact, often, when I pull him from my own bookshelf with the intention of just perusing a few pages, I end up sitting for at least an hour immersed in the photocopied images of his rich paintings and reading some of his biography (you know the book—the eternal $9.99 sale price one at Borders and Barnes & Noble—by R Metzger & I F Walther).

Now I’m no professional art critic, but you don’t have to be one in order to admire this man’s art. My favorite painting of his is A Pair of Shoes (late 1886—not the early ’87 version of the same title). It is a simple piece: a brown worn and weathered pair of shoes with tattered and torn shoestrings set on a lighter brown and dirty background.Though it’s not considered one of his greatest, I’m awed by its simplicity and symbolism. I believe this painting reflects a simple truth: that every man (woman, or child) has his own pair of shoes, his own places he’s been, people he’s known, experiences he’s had. This piece reflects the painter’s compassion for all of us who have walked many miles in our own shoes. It respects no one. It depicts a great truth about all of us: that we each—despite all the help along the way—must walk in our own shoes.

Among other things, Van Gogh is of course well-known for his thick layering of paint. This is what I love most about his work. He just throws the shit on! I love the use of color in The Sower With Setting Sun (June 1888 version), but it just wouldn’t be the same without the thick violet (or, violent) strokes of earth. Even better is Still Life: Vase with Twelve Sunflowers (August ’88). My interpretation of this one is that of a controlled rage. It looks like he’s not only just slamming the paint on, but that he’s also directing and honing his rage effortlessly (note the stunning detail of the seeds), proving his masterful supremacy to the genre that (I believe) he created. And by virtue of his mastery over this rage, we are left with the simple flower (even a few)—the symbol of sunshine and cheer. Brilliant!

If you’ve never given Van Gogh a chance, you should. There’s a lot to be had from this dead man. He just laid it all out—his artwork, his love for his brother, and his life in general. In a letter (#571) to his brother, Theo, he says, “My pictures are of no value; though of course they cost me a very great deal, at times even my blood and my brain” ...well, and your life, too pal. But maybe that’s why he was so great.