Thank you for this. The mystery of the ever-vanishing father. Yours disappeared into isolation and thrillers; mine diminished into reclusivity and vodka. Now gone eleven years, I think about him more than I ever did while he was alive. But he was more alive when I was young than ever after: the star quarterback still resting in the glory of his laurels. Nothing that came later could replace that. A slow fade to emptiness. But I remember when his star still shone brightly, and ponder how I can escape his fate, even while carrying him with me. (It helps that I have a son, and must think every moment how to not inflict that kind of pain.)
So much I relate to here, a father unknown and estranged to me. I have my impressions from the stories I hear but he is ultimately unknown to me. Any artifacts I would have found, like these books, would by perceived through my eyes, not his. Also, I loved Robert Ludlum in my middle school years, and most definitely thought of myself as the protagonist. An easy escape for sure, where you could feel the energy of life, the thrill, and assume you were living, even had a full day, when in reality nothing had occurred.
Thanks for this. The situation you describe I don't think I've encountered before. As such it is a little hard for me to process. That is, such an absolute estrangement that wasn't precipitated by any particular inciting incident.
It may be that his life was his to do with as he pleased, but I'm sorry that he was not willing or able to contribute much to his children's lives.
Thank you for this. The mystery of the ever-vanishing father. Yours disappeared into isolation and thrillers; mine diminished into reclusivity and vodka. Now gone eleven years, I think about him more than I ever did while he was alive. But he was more alive when I was young than ever after: the star quarterback still resting in the glory of his laurels. Nothing that came later could replace that. A slow fade to emptiness. But I remember when his star still shone brightly, and ponder how I can escape his fate, even while carrying him with me. (It helps that I have a son, and must think every moment how to not inflict that kind of pain.)
So much I relate to here, a father unknown and estranged to me. I have my impressions from the stories I hear but he is ultimately unknown to me. Any artifacts I would have found, like these books, would by perceived through my eyes, not his. Also, I loved Robert Ludlum in my middle school years, and most definitely thought of myself as the protagonist. An easy escape for sure, where you could feel the energy of life, the thrill, and assume you were living, even had a full day, when in reality nothing had occurred.
Thanks for this. The situation you describe I don't think I've encountered before. As such it is a little hard for me to process. That is, such an absolute estrangement that wasn't precipitated by any particular inciting incident.
It may be that his life was his to do with as he pleased, but I'm sorry that he was not willing or able to contribute much to his children's lives.
Excellent. Not hacky.