Doghouse

Supposed to be funny...but it's not so very so...

Olaf the Giant, crica 1650.








My friend Spritz is writing a book about his family history. He's got a brilliant mind and is, perhaps, the funniest writer I have ever known personally. He use to regularly decimate me at Cafe Paris in Sacramento during the Monday Night Word Jams.

Once I remember laughing so hard I had to crawl out the door on my hands and knees. I tried shimmying out on my back...but hands and knees were better. He is just that funny.

Anyway, Spritz, who now lives in Maine where it use to snow but no longer does, wrote me this a.m. about several issues...most of which shall remain private so long as due payment is received.

But one was genealogy and his fascination with it. I told him eighteen months ago to stop researching my family and do his own. Strangely, he did. He just dropped the whole MacDonald/Zetterberg thing.

Flake.

Apparently most of the relatives he contacts are not interested. Personally, I think this has more to do with his reputation as a satirist. Who wants to open up to a distant family member then read about it in Harper's three months later?

Not only that, given the extensive nature of the Spritz line (like fruit flies) throughout NorthAmerica the word passed quickly, and wrongly, that he was a "satanist" rather than the satarist that he is. This put a damper on research which no amount of collect calls could discourage.

But I digress.

My father is also interested in genealogies. He did research on his mother's side and found that in a remote Swedish village we once had an ancestor named "Olaf the Giant". Of course, this being several centuries ago and in a remote village, Olaf was actually 5'3".

But he was big to them...thus the name.

Me? I am 6'7". No one calls me "Mac the Giant".

No research of any kind that I know of has been done on the male side. The MacDonald men of old have a certain shadow and pall cast over them . Both of my grandfathers died fairly early of alcohol-related illnesses. I think one of them died in the snow (perhaps in Maine when they still had snow, but more likely Chicago, or perhaps in Philadelphia in a meat locker after a bar fight).

The men behind them are ghosts, as are the women. No real attempt has been made , that I know of, to research their lives, or their fathers and mothers. It's just useful when in Scotland to get free drinks at the bar (ironic huh?).

"Hi, I'm a MacDonald and I'm Scottish."

"Ayeya Mac! OO givtha roundahouse an git tuit!"

*******

I have talked with each of my sons about this genetic predisposition to one extend (age-appropriate) or another. I would have appreciated that talk myself at 16 instead of an open (and full) liquor cabinet and a well-stocked fridge and absent parents.

I might have preferred attention and nurture. Maybe talking and laughter like I had with my kids when I use to see them. "Oh pappy" Cammie would say when she came out and we would do art and watch Spongebob.

When I was a kid,. we were more like pets that simply had to be accounted for and fed. The only designated times were when grades came out and I had to eat my report card on the way home (heavy on vitamin D).

*******

I was not very bright. In fact, in fourth grade, they put me in the retarded class on every one's advice and even then I sunk to the bottom of the class. Admittedly, I had drooling down (and still do). But it was determined that I had no skills in the arts, science, critical thinking, and certainly not writing. They thought math showed some promise when I was able to successfully purchase lunch and get change three days in a row. On the fourth day I brought Danish coins and was rebuffed.

Anyway, did I mention I have a hard time focusing?

So to return to my other three points...

*******

My Ex and LIBF are trying to take their histories and overwrite my life. I believe I have to object.

LIBF grew up with men who had alcohol issues and they were mean, violent and cruel.

So far he has not shown me that he has not inherited these gifts. I have been threatened (no matter how "courteously") on many occasions. He has assaulted my son and wishes to remind me regularly how my words mean nothing (while his do) and how his actions mean nothing (while mine do). He has threatened me with restraining orders when I peacefully picked up my kids (when I got to do that).

Frankly...I don't trust him. No brainer.

I figure, the only reason (given his actions toward Adam) that he has not taken me "out back" to explain things to me in a "manly way" is because I am twice his size (minimum) and I would simply unscrew his tiny head in defense.

Note that...self-defense. I'm a lover.

L grew up with a family laced with addiction, She is a classic codependent. She needs the disease to flourish because it is what she knows and understands.

Thus her need to view and treat me as she does. It has nothing to do with me or reality at all.

It is what she knows and expects. She is still trying to work out her own demons.

Whatever.

******

Family histories are difficult. Everyone has a "dysfunctional family". Our job is to recognize where we are in that web, become our true selves, realize our callings and love and forgive those closest to us. That doesn't solve everything...but at least you have a map and a code.

In LIBF's map anyone who has ever had issues with alcohol (and I have) is a perp. It has nothing to do with me, or my words or my actions. It's his internal "grid". Done deal. I'm just the "marker". And even that I do not drink makes no difference because I once did...and it hurt him so (by them) that I am just a tag...a marker.

My dad use to be the same way to a lesser degree. I think, actually, he was more pissed that I spoke my mind freely (I admit it must be maddening). But I think he also saw the spectre of his own father hanging over my head and simply did not know what to do.

Let me explain this about my father. He is terribly intelligent, witty, funny handsome and adventurous. I am also all of these things...BUT our intelligence swings into a wide chasm (or at least it has for most of our shared lives until recently).

He is also maddening. He is passionate, outspoken and often times unreasonable.

Go figure. Where is Olaf when you need him?

Anyway, we have never really gotten along at all until the last few years. We made a deal...an "accord" a few years back at the family cabin. In the agreement he agreed to grant me autonomy and an unrestricted free homeland in exchange for honest disclosure about the state of affairs (respectfully) in my homeland and forgiveness of him for the past.

If only they would do this in the Middle East.

This was a significant move forward, and we have managed, despite outside pressures, to maintain this peace accord. We may never be close, but we love each other and respect rules the day.

*******

We found out years later that I was not quite retarded. We also found out I could write, and at a near ridiculous rate. We also found out I have a knack for painting and art. We soon found that nearly anything was possible: poetry, farce, short stories and even a novel which is actually done.

We found out I had a knack for systems theory and saw paradigms in my head that became actual products (and with a patent in one case).

We also found other things I am not so happy about.

In my poem Seconds I talk about inheriting the "burning hot heart of my grandfather".

This is the part of the MacDonalds that needs to be talked about. It is our genius. It's how my father understood gas and liquid chromatography in an intuitive way from the gitgo. It's how my eldest son understands music from the inside out and people. It's how each of them sees from "inside".

It's why I see connections few others will ever see.

It's scary at times. Maybe my grandfather, who died in the snow, just had nowhere to go with who he really was.

We do.

I do.

But we compensate or mitigate. Or we have in our own adult ways.

Now for the sons who read this (and sisters) the future is not fixed. You can choose NOW, and I suggest you do rather than simply accept and react.

I have been fighting my "disease" since late Fall. It is hard but worthwhile. My enemies (and make no mistake...the fact I have just typed this WILL be used against me by them) mean me harm and not good as sure as the Lord is the Center of Creation and all that is good. In a sense it is not personal. They are working out their own issues and I am just the paper-cut-out occasion for their madness.

But your brother and sister, niece and nephew...they are the ones who suffer.

It is whispered in Camille's ear "your dad has a disease". But when one has a disease one is visited, no? And in remission even more so...right? How about a celebration of that!?

But there is none of that. No..in fact a tightening of the reigns.

Actions or words?

And then there is the simple matter that kids just need what they need.

When they are denied it stays with them...even when they are 50.

I'd prefer they not have to go there.

******

A word about my father (he cringes).

I rather like this man.

When he gets on the phone with me I can tell he is uneasy. He wants to do well by me but he is not sure how to do so. I am not an easy man to manage because I am essentially unmanageable.

Only God can manage a Mac. Even God is challenged...believe me.

Dad has to suppress his old ways and hold to our agreement (as do I!). There is probably no way to bridge immediate issues. He tries. I try. We love each other.

But I want to note that the retarded son who had no ability to write or do art or speak or think but had to find his way alone to those things now sees his own dad doing these things well.

I have a framed drawing on my wall by my dad of the Alola street house I bought. It is beautiful. He is gifted. I have read many of his writings, both political and personal, and while he cannot spell to save his life, he does have the sense of it. He is a gifted writer and a gifted artist even though those his eyes are going off.

Mine are going off too. I shot the lead pictures of this year's Maverick's Opening Ceremonies with my great camera...but I could hardly see a thing. The pictures are really good (http://www.maverickssurf.com) but it was sheer Jedi instinct.

So my Da and I are not so very different after all.

And I love him.

So what about my kids?

posted by Obi-Mac BakDon @ 7:49 PM