...and our summer-land.

there are some days where i miss my father so damn much, and i don't know why. can't explain why. technically i shouldn't think about him at all, if my brain were wired properly.

i don't think about him resentfully, the way i used to. i think about him like a character in a book that keeps popping up, whose ongoing adventures are amazing, heroic, and untouchable. i wrote him a poem once about how we were both "survivors." i think it was shortly after i was diagnosed with crohn's, which has been proven to have a direct corrolation with men exposed to agent orange. that's like the REAL fucker, you know--the real kick in the teeth for the men and women who managed to make it out of there (hell) alive--their offspring reap the fantastic benefits of combat as well. it would be as if someone with a vendetta against you bashed your little brother's face in instead, i guess. maybe that's why he didn't want to see me grow up.

when i get married he won't be there to walk that walk with me, but i've decided, so what? if there's a man out there who understands what has happened to my immediate family, the needless, stupid daily tragedy, then there'll be another way to feel like a million dollars on that day.

i wear his ring every day, and i'm not sure why. someone asked me about it yesterday, someone handsome and worldly.

he and i were both like teenagers here in california. some of my best memories were going to see the very first "Batman" movie with him in orange county...surprising my grandmother with a blue parakeet (that she promptly gave away), going to knott's berry farm and adding significantly to my rock collection...i know that he still loves me, because i still love him and think he's a hero, no matter what happened.

i have no idea what it must be like for girls with doting fathers. "That boy isn't good enough for you, Stephanie. Let me take you out to dinner and buy you an expensive new outfit." well yeah, that's pushing it, but it must be like that, right? Little princess? you fuck with me, you answer to my father? or big brother(s)? i guess that will happen in another life, if i am lucky enough to come back as a human girl again, but with less complicated genetics. me, me, me.

coming to cali was like walking streets paved with gold! especially as a young teenager, when there was nothing that impressed me or made me smile. there was always so much to look at, and get excited about, and it was so NEW and beautiful, even if it was the side of the freeway or something. EVERYTHING was different! the kids asked, "you're from Transylvania? wow!" and the ocean was not the same.

at risk of sounding like a brochure, the food was what used to really get me. my grandmother took me out with her friends to a host of different and bizzarre cuisenes. she took me to the Pageant of the Masters (yes, Dr. Anderson.)...twice! The Pageant was held in Laguna Hills every summer and was essentially a stage where humans would re-enact famous paintings and sculptures, along with amazing scenery. it was so hard to believe they were real people--you couldn't see them breathing or anything. it was pure genius, and i was a lucky girl.

granny also took me to santa catalina island. my dad first pointed it out to me from their hotel, the very first time we went out west with my mom. in the distance, through a bit of fog/smog, you could see something in the ocean that looked very close by, but was a good half-hour boatride (or more, i think). all i remember about it were boats, everywhere. it was so mysterious from the mainland, but being there was like a fisherman's oasis of sorts, with dark little bars and seafood. very quiet.

i used to rollerskate around my grandmother's retirement community, which was interesting b/c i was the only one doing so, and the elderly people who saw me seemed questioning, but ok with it. my grandmother was an avid walker, and (having dressed me in a long-sleeved sun-shirt, straw hat and old-person wrap-around sunglasses) would take me all over the place at an expertly quick pace for someone in her 70's. she took me to South Coast Plaza, the hugest mall in the frigging country, other than the Mall of America, i guess...it was INSANE. she gave me some money and said, "SPEND it!" and i did--i bought myself one of those fancy journals that i barely felt good enough to write in.

she's now 98 years old, and still getting around quite well. she is one of those people that you just know has discovered the secret to happiness.

i wonder if i'll ever see my father here in california. i think he'd been stationed here before he was shipped out to Guam, and then to Okinawa, and then on to Thailand and Vietnam. i cry when i think about how he was all over the world, all by himself. i guess he wasn't though, i'm sure he had friends who lived or died. as a child i had no idea what this "Veet Nom" thing was. no one really explained that not everyone's dad had pictures wearing a white hat and crisp-looking shirt. no one told me that it would all come crashing down on him (and us) when they finally decided to say WELCOME HOME, in 90 or 91. what does that DO to a person who has been staying alive, doing their job and gets totally torn into when he gets home? were people just stupid back then?

anyway, he'll be immortal to me. i think the best part of Not Saying a Word to one another is that nothing can convince me that he doesn't love me, that he never loved me. convoluted, but true. and i know he's happy.

as for me i'm not quite so brave as they hoped i would be--i still need people to love very much, ones i can talk to. maybe then i'll become the Sigourney Weaver that he would've liked me to be. doubtful though. i don't want to be Sigourney Weaver, i want to be me, and be soft and kind.

2 brown doves are sitting on the roof right outside my window. i'm proud to call california home now, and would like to say that i want to see the world too, and i want to be well, and i will not be alone.