An objective note on parental influences.

I have two editors. One dead and one alive. They both have an equal share in my gene pool: my father, burned to dust and my Mother still eating, drinking, reading and writing. I have a need to explore their different collaborations and effect on my existence and journal. In other words, I'm nearing a crises again and would like to forgo the bloodletting therapy. However I have an opportunity at my keys to uncover more substance of fact and fictitious songs of beauty.

They made me in their singular methodology of love: my father buying Rototillers and diamonds as gifts  for his wife, and my Mother breaking plates on his head and nurturing the devil out of him in return. They both loved and cared for me and my brothers and sisters. We were all lucky. I don't believe we choose the parents we get in this world's game, and it is not for us to compare and revel or dismay, but to accept and mine and share our parent as gifts, like carved onyx jewels, priceless and omniscient.

So from this journal forth I will think on both parents when either one comes to mind and be more apt to have a trialogue on every subject of interest! For memories are just like real life; they both grow fresh everyday. And for the writing artist, as is for every artist, sparking the imagination is what counts.  So there is no need to perceive these influences, dead or alive, as competing for my affections. Each has the closeness and capacity to shatter my ego if necessary and boost my morale once taken down.



© Donald Grube, 2010