angela_n_hunt: (Me 2014)
Today is the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the day my father died, fourteen years ago today.


It feels more like four days today. Like I just saw him yesterday and if I turn fast enough or around the right corner, I'll find him standing there, grinning at me like a loon.

I miss my father so much today.

There's nothing new to say or for me to tell you about my father. If you track either the Hugh M. Hyatt tag or the Poppa Bear tag here on my LJ, you will find my memories of him. Stories that I've kept alive as best as I can, because it's all that I have left of him. The things he touched and the things he made are not him. But the memories... Those are things, moments that retain a bit of his soul. A bit of who I knew and remember of the man. That I remember of my father.

This year has been so so full of death and grief. So many have died or been killed and not far away, not across the water, but in communities that I travel through, losses to friends I have known for years. Artists gone that I have known of for years. Children taking their lives, because they're not sure that the next four years would be survivable for them, because the gender they were did not comply with the physical form they were born with. Artists also taking their lives, because they weren't sure if they'd have health care the next four years, and better to make one's own exit than be at the mercy of a cruel and merciless government that demands Obedience, and dispenses only pain and a slow death from pre-existing conditions, because apparently the sick and disabled don't deserve care or help or gods forbid, hope. And on top of that, a friend I knew since high school finally lost the battle with his heart, the organ he had been given with a congenital defect that finally got him. He lived longer than any of us thought possible. So much so that I think we all thought he would be here for a little bit longer.

But maybe that would have never been true, no matter when he died. Jason's dying would have been a loss no matter what, and a lot of us would have wished for more time. Not for us. For his children and for his wife, who has been such a pillar of strength and power, that I am in awe and hope that when or if she needs to break or just take a break, we will all be here to catch her.

It's the least I can do. The least *we* can do as her community.

And here we are on Pearl Harbor Day and the World is on fire and we are firmly in the grips of what Heinlein called the Crazy Years. I like to think that my father would have been a voice of reason during all of this. Spoken out especially against the willful denial of scientific fact presented in hard data. This once, his stubborness would have been a gift and a source of power. He loved to argue. I like to think that he probably could have out-argued the Devil. He had that in him.

I don't have his facility for the math or the science. I can only write about the people and the art and the music that I track. The politics that I immerse myself in, because at heart, I am a truly political animal, and in another life, life in DC and write analysis for people who probably never read them. But whatever. That life is not this life and I work with the tools that I've been given.

Oh, it hurts this year, Lady. It really fucking hurts. And next year doesn't look any better, in fact the next decade looks to be pretty fucking shitty. We're going to lose more people, and not to natural causes. Even my father's heart attack was an expected risk. It's not like the family history doesn't run in that direction.

So apparently today is going to be full of fire and tears. I will burn incense and offerings and pray. I will meditate and weep.  I will rail at the cruelty of men and the blind neutrality of the vast Universe.

I need a box of tissue and a new cup of coffee. The crying is giving me that stupid headache that seems to follow such outbursts.

Pop, what are we going to do? I know that we can prevail, but I also know what the human cost of that effort will be. It'll be body count in both literal bodies, and in a lot of minds. It will break a lot of people and we will lose people we love and gods, I just want it to stop. I just. want. it. to. stop.

Goddess, help. Help. Help, help, help.

I don't know what to do.

I want my Daddy.
angela_n_hunt: (Default)
No picture till this evening. Things were hectic this morning. Regular work week routine isn't quite there this morning. And I've come in to a stack of work that has me mildly irritated, because it's going to put me behind on other things.

Oh well. It is what it is.

* * *

Unrelated, but in my brain: the Ant spoke to my Bipolar Mother last night. *sigh*

My mother's family...

There's no real way to describe my mother's family without sounding horrible. So I won't. The less energy I give them, the happier I am. I haven't seen anyone from that side of the family since I was 14, except for one aunt, upon the occasion of seeing my Bipolar Mother after an 8 year avoidance. An 8 year avoidance I only ended at the direct request of my father. The only reason that I still speak to my Bipolar Mother is because of a request from him shortly before his death. In many ways, it was his dying wish.

He didn't want me to abandon her, even though he understood I had every right to, considering the history.

It's not worth going into details except for this.

I didn't realize I was still angry at them, until the Ant told me the current news.

One of my cousins is in jail. Again. The cousin I always said would end up there. Both aunts are ill. The uncle is now a servant to his invalid wife, and has only girls left to him, the one boy in jail, the other dead. The boys he worshipped and idealized, the girls he treated like... there are no words.

Karmic justice doesn't come close to what the news was.

I indulged briefly in shadenfreude. I'll be honest. But this morning, it's all ash.

I know nothing about these people. And I'm glad. And that's why it's all ash.

I've re-written this entry a few times, because my feelings are so conflicted.

I guess it's this.

I had to find my real family. The family that loves me and sees me for who I am, who loves that I'm an artist and alive.

These other people? They threw me away. For the very same reasons that my real family love me.

I guess I don't know how to feel about them anymore.


angela_n_hunt: (Default)

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