Celery and Sedition

I strutted to my car and drove home in a mood that could a smile on the face of the corpses buried in the graveyard I passed on the detour home, and it probably did. I made three sales at work on a 5 hour shift on Saturday. That weekend I had to drive to Kendall instead of being picked up, but that’s because my dad has been so busy working on his pieces for his next art show. It’s been coming together nicely, and I really love the techniques he’s used to create these abstract effects on the paintings, it really is brilliant. Anytime he does work, it’s for hours on end, always on his feet, working and reworking in the hot and humid garage studio, but I can already see it’spaying off. The style is really just beautiful and I want to just take his paintings and hang them up everywhere when I buy my own house. Although I don’t mind driving up to see my father if the situation calls for it, it takes away from the drive to and form his house to be able to spend some time without his wife and her children. I don’t despise them at all, but it’s important to be able to talk to my father without his wife taking him away by using trivial and useless things as an excuse. If I had all the time in the universe to explain my frustration about this, I wouldn’t be able to finish without devoting every day to writing down the problems caused by this marriage. I have personally heard my stepmother explain to my father how she hates when he comes to pick up my sister and I for the weekend because she can’t be with him to tell him what to do. And when he does pick us both up, which happens rarely now that my sister is in college, she has to call him at least three times during the drive just to say something unnecessary. It is frustrating to say the least, but considering everything else she does, it takes serious prayer time and mediation to keep myself centered with God well enough to not bother myself with her “overbearing” nature. Okay, she’s a control freak. She must always control a situation out of fear that things don’t go her way, thinking something terrible will happen. She places a great importance on the image of her self, home and her family, and she puts forth an incredibly great amount of effort to keep that image together, and I must say, I am impressed with her dedication to that. In addition to his, she is also incredibly judgmental of everyone, and she doesn’t like anyone in my entire family. There is always a criticism about what someone does, even when there is no fault to be found, such as my angel of a sister. My sister is one of the holiest, nicest people on Earth, yet my stepmother still finds a way to insult her out of the anger built up from her not being to have our dad for herself. If she feels strongly about something, (actually, she feels strongly about everything) she has no problem expressing exactly how she feels, and if that means I need to dress a certain way and behave and eat a certain way for my dad to be able to stay with her, his attitude must always be “so be it”. If my father is one of the greatest men I’ve ever met, and I truly mean that. He is very gentle and loving and always knows how to compliment well. He has great taste and always knows what to do in any given situation. His character is greater than that of most men, and it is truly amazing to be able to be his son, I honestly can’t believe I have a man like that for a father, it’s as if God just handed me a miracle that I didn’t deserve. My father only feels strongly about certain things, and if his wife feels a certain way about something he may feel differently about, he changes that opinion immediately if that means staying with her. If she tells him his son has to keep his elbows off the table to stay in her house, or he has to wear certain slacks to Mass, he immediately enforces that upon his son. It is a process that slowly tames him, and I’ve seen it changing him for the past 5 years. It kills me inside to have this happen, but there’s no possible way to explain it to him. My father can be very patient, but if I bring up anything, he immediately throws himself into a fit of rage and there’s no way to talk to him. He transforms from a lamb into a lion and I’m stuck in a cage with him. I talk to my Papa, my dad’s dad about this and he knows exactly how I feel because he feels exactly the same way. Luckily, he can help me through any trouble I have contending with difficulties of the tendencies my dad has picked up from his wife. I can see in his face how he has changed, and he doesn’t seem any happier. My dad is always stressed, and his marriage seems to be making it worse. He has to worry about 4 more kids that he spends more time with than either my sister or I, which also have been given higher priority when he has to pick them up from something instead of visiting us on a Wednesday for dinner. It seems that almost every week, there’s always something stopping him from coming, either rescheduling or canceling so he can pick up his wife’s children. I do understand that he may have to do that, but all things considered, it’s upsetting to lose my father like this. That’s right, I am losing my father. I am losing half the man that raised me. I lost the part of the man that would pick up my sister and I, take us to his studio apartment, go out to eat, see movies, walk around Lincoln Road, see our grandparents, aunt and cousins, watch R movies and live the life of the laid-back family that we truly are. My dad has lost that part of himself now that he’s no longer a bachelor and he has to take on responsibilities of a house, step children and the thumb that is pressing down harder on him as he tries to get out of bed in the morning. I am a boy who still has half his father, and luckily, half is still better than what I ever deserved.

Undergarments and Umbrellas

When I was little I used to look up to the adult world with these perceptions about it being on a level that I could never imagine being able to understand and fully grasp. It seemed so above everything in my world. I saw the world of people who were much older than me (some like to be known as adults or grown-ups) as knowing much more than small children and who were much more mature just because I assumed their experience gave them a great understanding of the world. I was content with this view of the world, because it left me to be carefree, not wanting to worry about paying for a car, a mortgage, bills, and the stresses of life that were shielded from adolescence. Still, where one thing lacks, another is present to fill the void. When you’re young, no-one listens to you, and you have no control over anything in your life save for the imaginary portions. A child can cry when they get something they don’t want, which happens just about all the time, but they’re young, it’s okay. On the other hand, an older person isn’t allowed to cry, so they transform their frustration into passive aggressive action, anger, drinking, malice, spite, repression and so forth. Perhaps the parameters for adulthood are solely to have the patience to live long enough to be taken seriously. On the other hand, experience is undoubtably attained throughout one’s life, granted it may be minimal, but if that’s what life hands you, so be it. The presumptuous attitude of many older people can be seen either is wisdom acquired through the years, or it can be a perception that is developed from poor philosophical education to think for oneself, wether the education was gained through the self in thought or from another. It can be the accumulation of thoughts for years on end with a mind not developed to think deeply and truly analyze states of being and existence, of human interaction and morals, ultimately, the philosophical questions to our very existence. This would cause a poor understanding of the value from one’s education through experience. Maybe many adults’ visions are corrupt from preconceived notions of earning experience, presumption and having a sufficient amount of knowledge and understanding. Perhaps this is connected to the seed of ignorance and foolishness. Perhaps it is the root of arrogance, close-minded views and outlooks that are built upon infelicitous truth.

2001: A Space Odyssey

Just to get started, let's explore the vast topics of Sicilians, cinderblocks and summertime. The alliteration incorporates, not only some arbitrary nouns, but matters which I feel require substantial attention to examine the properties of culture, cement and the seasons. Sicilians are a special breed, created by the whirlwind of civilizations that have inhabited the Mediterranean region for hundreds of years. It fosters a sort of life that can only be experienced with the wisdom acquired through trial and error, dumb luck and some not so dumb luck. My bloodline can be traced back to the island of Sicily, which can explain the emotional outbursts that define the nature of my family in general, as well as the appreciation for artistic tastefulness in everyday life reflected by their elegant fashion and charming home decor. I can feel that natural need within my to grasp life and wring out the flavor for all it has to offer. The sicilians are a mixed breed, they relax and take lunch breaks that are longer than the work shift. They much prefer to have a good lunch and sit back to talk about futbol rather than push for extra commission. The North, on the other hand is a different story. They are more industrious and hard-working, just like those Germans and Northern Europeans, eating their schnitzel and wearing lederhosen. Damn those indefatigable Northerners with their fast-paced lifestyle and determination to better themselves with "hard work". Don't misunderstand that I am completely American, first and foremost, and pride myself on the tradition of self-reliance and hard work to make your own wealth in what was once the land of opportunity, (more on that later) but the ember deep within me (although that could be my acid reflux) yearns for the lax and tasteful style that captures the essence of my lineage from generations ago, before Ellis Island and the Godfather and guidos and wise-guys and tough-guys and guineas 'whos talks like-a dis! EYY!!' Hey, let 'em be, they're not botherin' me. I haven't even been off the continental plate that North America sits on, but when I can visit the country of my family's homeland, I will breathe in the architecture and absorb the essence and scents and flavors that drape over the ancient monoliths and churches and statues that stand in partial ruin from civilizations that exist in 10th grade World History as a combined perception of the textbook, teacher and student, I will eat the food with such satisfaction I can only imagine that I will cry. But look through some tourist's photos and look for the natives. What are they doing? They are sitting at a table outside some cafe, sipping on a cappuccino, laughing at the silly tourists with sneakers, fanny packs and cameras who are taking pictures to remember a trip they never really went on. I hear my friends talk about their trips to European countries and browse through pictures on Facebook as they lean on the Tower and wave at a small metal box being held by their parents while they stand in the presence of some of the greatest architectural achievements from some of the most amazing civilizations to have existed on the planet, my heart drops to think they could fly over the Atlantic Ocean just to say they've been somewhere without realizing they never really were.