Tuesday, September 22, 2009


In the 5 or so years prior to my father's death he endeavored to tell his story, or parts of it, in book form. This labor, to lay down, to recreate, to narrate to himself the shape and trajectory of his life was a task both narcissisticly self-consuming and deeply meaningful. To ask of oneself again and again and again: why would I relate this or that story, what elements shall I include or leave to evaporate in the non-telling, this process of defining and embellishing, of writing the story of one's life gave to my father a purpose and reason and more an opportunity to sumate for himself, in a both personal and public fashion the tally, to understand himself, to jest and wax poetic and political, to quote his heroes (B. Dylan and Shakespeare, among others), to apologize and explain, and to affirm, concretely and without cynicism his great respect for, awe of, and delight in living and loving fully.

What will follow in weekly, chaptered posts is my father's memoir But I Feel Alright, with my comments, anecdotes, reactions, thoughts, etc.

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