hmmm, apparantly courtney got arrested,charged with intoxication and sent to a mental hospital. she escaped and was dropped of at home by a man in a guitar shop truck. true story, read it in Spin so there. Speaking of Spin the is a beautious picture of Jack and Meg next to the slot of NUMBER ONE ALBUM OF THE YEAR!!!!!!!whee, good jod kiddies, you deserve it. I think that the nickname they use for their fans(Candy Cane Children) is so endearing and sweet. mmmmmm jaaaack. yes, im obsessed. but BLAH.

^_^ Gettysburg-ness tomorrow. I love Devils Den, cant wait to go back. One of the few fond memories of my dad that i have was when i was 7 or 8 and we went to Gettysburg and walked around for hours, him telling me about what he read in history books and diaries of the soldiers. and then we ate lunch in Devils Den hiked about in the woods. I guess I like hiking and nature so much because thats really the only thing I can do with him. Well...the only thing I can do with him while enjoying it at the same time. I was pondering about my childhood, seperating the little pieces of vivid memories that I have from the smoggy almost memories that I have from the stories and pictures I've seen. The smoggy ones are really bad. Some of the vivid ones are wonderfous and happy and loevly and if you based my childhood solely on those few you would say I had the perfect life growing up. Like when mum and I would play barbies together, or when we would paint or color when I was really little to when I actually started having political discussions with her. And the good ones with dad I've mostly covered, but also when when I was really little(like 4 or so) in the winter we would sit by the fire and talk about things and I would ride on his back and he would let me choose any recored I wanted from his little stack of ones I was allowed to hear. and he would make me hot cocoa or maybe watch a Disney movie. Sometimes I yearn for those times. of joy and carefree innocence of childhood. but then I muse over the smoggy bad ones. the ones I dont want to think happened but did. and then I remember why I was in such a rush to get out. Why I had to grow up so quickly. Why I never really got to be a child. And then the pictures and stories merely say what happened, but these memories for me arent like watching a movie in my mind, I can remeber how I felt, sometimes even what I was thinking. Sometimes I have dreams about the smoggy ones and then the day following I'm just blank. I go through the day apathetic and solomn. And the day feels like its dragging on forever and that the minute hands are moving two steps back, one step foreward. but then I finnaly get home and it was a total blur and I think, 'My that day went fast'.

Christmas time was always nice.I would wake my parents up at 5 or 6 in the morning and they allowed me one present before breakfast. so I would rush over and open the one that looks most promising while dad slowly prepares the food. he always was a great cook. and I would down It quickly, eating almost nothing and barely tasting the fresh pumpkin muffins or perfectly done scrambled eggs. then Mum would help me get ready for church. and I would put on the dress that we couldnt afford and the cute little red tights from the grocery store(I can still remeber what they smelled like. they always smelled the same) and the patent leather mary janes with the microscopic heels that I loved and were reserved for special occasions only(theyre in our basement)and she would do a pretty updo to my hair and tie it with christmas ribbons, then take her time to get ready. and dad would be the slowest of all and always the last. then we would take the long way to church, my excitment growing by the minute to arrive home and unwrap all the presents. and we would finnaly get there and I would race to the door, thinking that would make it end sooner. the mass always seemed like hundreds of hours instead of a mere one, and we would sing, and hear about jesus. but all I could think about was the presents. and we would finally get home and my coat was barely off by the time the first was unwrapped. but then mom would always scorn me, telling me that we do the stockings first. and she would unwrap the little gift I picked out for her that dad bought. wrapped in hand coloured wrapping paper. and dad would unwrap the little gifts I picked out that mom bought. then I would pour out my 2 stockings and play with what was inside for a long time. almost forgetting the wealth under the evergreen. nibble on a chocolate reindeer,colour with the new crayons and colouring book. then mom would remind me of the tree. and I woul race over and after quick thank yous for every gift, play with it a bit then dig my way through them. the best ones were always on the bottom. the Magic Attic dolls, or nicest stuffed animals, or the Barbies that came with extra accesories. and then I would unwrap the gifts we had set aside that had been piling up from various members of our clan dispursed throught the east coast. a trinket from Grandma(from mums side) and nice porcelin doll or beautiful jewelry box from grandpa and Nanny. dad unwrapping the gifts from his coworkers, mom the things from her friends.there was no argueing. we would watch the specials on TV. while I happliy played with the new treasures on the floor. Mum and dad cuddling on the couch, drinking coffee. Dad wouldn't drink on Christmas day.Mum wouldnt nag. It was perfect.I would wish that it was christmas everyday, not for the presents per se, but for the peacfulness and love that surrounded the house. that feeling was never there on anyother day. And I was hopeful that things would be like this forever, buy on December 26th it was all back to normal. mom would go shopping at the afterchristmas sales with the money we didnt have. dad would get drunk and listen to music. and I would curl up in my bed, trying to hold on to the beauty that was the day before. Hoping that if I just stayed like that for the rest of my life, everything would be nice.

yes, I honestly do remeber all of that. the crayons(64!)the 'big box' barbies. the peace and joy and wonder of christmas. As I got older that tapered of. and the only christmas mum was single in the apartment with me was a quiet affair. exchange some gifts, watch some tv. go to church. do exactly the same thing we did in my youth but the exhuberence, the joy, the family love and kinship was lost. it was empty. just another day. with the exceptions of material goods. we actually had money by then, so the next day we would go shopping guilt free. mum would try to fill the emptiness with sweaters and CDs and things we didnt need. and I would go to my fathers house 2 days after christmas and it was just a wreck. he didnt have money so he was depressed, he didnt have a signifigant other, he neve saw me. but the irony of it was, that when he did see me all he did was mope about me not being there. so the visits went from every weekend, with dinner on wednsday(I'll get into those another time). to every other weekend and dinner. to just everyother weekend. to once or twice a month. at this moment, I havnt seen him about 5 or 6 weeks. Sally doesnt want me to. Mum doesnt want me to. I dont even want to but I have to because I still want to hang on to those glorious days when we would go hiking and when I got tired he carried me on his shoulders, and christmas, sitting by the fire listening to Bob Dylan. and he would tell about the moment he first heard each song. I had heard those stories a million times, but still loved to hear them. And even now, when he tells me about those first moments of hearing the complicated simplicty and beauty of the opening riffs and the first whiskey drenched graveled notes from stoned lips and I would bask in that hapiness for a few moments. and imbibe the amazing soul of this god like character, Bob Dylan. To me, he is my hero. not just because of him music, but because what happened when I would listen to him new to my father.whether it was in front of the fire place or on the couch with insence wafting through the air, chirp of crickets signaling night time.they were exactly the same. the 8 year age gap was filled with 2 minutes of a white mans soul on an old turn table. and then around 12 he would tell me its time for me to sleep(i was about 11 or 12 during the insence/criket/couch times)and I would pull out the feather bed, settle it on the ground and borrow into the warmth of the good night I had just had. They werent all like that. most were bad and drunk and screaming.but once in a while they were perfect. I guess thas one of the reasons I havnt completely stopped(other than the guilt of me being 14, by society still needing my father and his guidance)the small chance that well listen to dylan and talk about politics, and read the old world war 1 book. my father swearing that one of the picture in it is of my great grandfather. retelling the stories his father told him about WW2. that could be a reason to why love american history so much. and Bob Dylan. anytime either of those come to play during the visit its a good one. but sometimes he doesnt want to retell the stories. saying Ive heard them a millions times. sometimes he wants to listen to pink floyd instead. but there are no stories about the first time he heard syd and roger. only dylan.sometimes he just doesnt even feel like doing anything other than wallowing in self pity(even if its his damn fault his life is that horrible)and watching the weather channell. swearing the people on there hate him. CNN apparantly is plotting against him, too.

or he'll tell me about his glory days in the Marine Corps. the various travels to Korea and norway and okanawa and greenland. he wasnt fighting, or defending freedom. but some of the stories are intersting. like the old man he met in korea. and the sunset in norway. how he'll never forget its brilliance. the way the air smelled. the taste of juice in his mouth. he cant remeber the names of the men beside him. or the colour of the truck on which he was sitting as it trudged along a gravel road. but he can remeber the sounds and tastes and scents.just staring, wishing it would never end.

just like i wished the bob dylan record or christmas day or the old books would never end. Im left with just those vivid memories, the sounds,tastes,scents,what I was thinking and what I felt. the way the mary janes clicked importantly on the linolieum kitchen floor. or the cold pews.

if you took all those memories and strung them together, and only saw those, then saw the trainwreck my mind is today, you would think im lying. but something happened. I dont know what. when I try to remeber it ise cold iron rods are forced through my spine and trough my limbs. and my blood turns hot. and the scent of vodka fills my nostrils. and my head pounds. Ive forgotten something, or I cant remember what I remember.

but the sun is setting, the porch lights are blinking on and the christmas lights illuminate the windows and my stomach is begging for nourishment and its a little after five. so I'll save the rest of this for a later date. I hope Devils Den is the same as I remeber it. Its been so long, and I went in july. and I was with daddy. on the good days he wasnt john or dad or father. he was simply daddy. that word hold so much love and endearment for any father its used on. I dont use it for anytime other than good. Im not to sure as how to close this. its almost like Ive taken you on a high speed train ride through my life and screeching to a halt just when Im about to divulge more. but my fingers hurt and Im sure you tired of me talking about this. adeiu

wish you well