April 15, 2008

A student invited me to a "Freedom Seder" last night, and I went, and was glad I did. A Freedom Seder is not actually a seder, but reproduces the tradition of the seder in a way that is meant to take in all ages, tongues and races. A little diffuse, but charming, and populated with sweet kids whom I had not known before. The parsley struck me as almost incredibly delicious, and I went around gobbling up everybody’s bitter herbs.

Attended this morning a talk Jason gave on his mythological paintings, which include me as the Aztec feathered serpent. . . holding a sort of hummingbird-seahorse in my hand. . . teaching wisdom. . . to a baby raven. . . anyway, despite the awkwardness of my description, he did beautifully, and the work is extraordinary. I think he may be a genius-- a genius of the best kind, entirely without self-consciousness. His paintings are literary and narrative, and I was proud of his colleagues for not taking him to task for this, for completely accepting–so it seemed to me– his very un-post-modern ambitions for himself as a painter.

My sister struggles not only with the lawyers but with my father’s reflexive assumption that the lawyers are shysters. They may in fact be, but the point is to keep as much of our money away from the government as is legal, and in that they are on our side. He refuses to sign the necessary papers. He accuses her of cheating him. He accuses everyone of cheating him. He apparently paid his Visa bill three times last month, and then accused Chase Bank of stealing from him when his bank balance was off. Her desire is to get his investments in trust for us so we don’t have to go through probate when the end comes. Father actually thought he had done this back in Akron, but, typically, he did it on the cheap and did not follow even the bargain lawyer’s advice, so it must be done again, with him in the valley of the shadow of frustration whenever it comes to money, at which he used to be so point precise. Turns out even his living will has to be redone for Georgia. If he "codes," they will put him– a man of 90–on the respirator until the courts assure them they cannot be held accountable. But his new lunch companion is to his taste, and she and he are like old chums. That may be more important.

I cannot express how relieved I am that my sister has taken this on. I simply wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have thought of it. I would have assumed that dad knew his business and gone merrily on my way, until he died and the Great Tangle lay before us. I would probably have ignored that too. Oh, take the fucking money and leave me alone. Fault or blessing, I don’t know: it is what it is. I would walk into a burning building to save a dog, but I would not phone a lawyer on a sunny day or in a starry night. I can fathom the hearts of poems, but having to sign my name two times in one day drives me into fury.

"Fury" reminds me of how much of father’s stubborn rages I see in myself. Add confusion to the mix–as is the case with him now– and I too would be impossible. Forewarned is forearmed, and I must discover how to back away from my rage, my ability to nurse an injury through weary months, my overdeveloped sense of justice and offence.

BE says that I talk in my sleep. I thought I left off that long ago, but how would I know? What did I say? He said I was complaining that I lost a filling, and that I had to find it because the filling was also the bulb of a lily I wanted in my garden.