Good Question. . .

Have I been singing better recently, or have I just been away from the ego-crush of the conservatory for too long?

The Hoarder. . .

Recently, my mother and I have been streaming a show from Netflix called “Hoarders”. This late night ritual that we have developed is a strange one, particularly because we think it isn’t a very good show. The writers tend to repeat the same information over and over (e.g. “if they don’t clean up their house, they will be evicted.”) The homeowners are so frustratingly unable to let go of stuff, that my mother and I find ourselves trying to instruct these people through the screen. Despite our dislike of many aspects of the show, we can’t stop watching multiple episodes a night. It’s too damn interesting. It’s probably interesting for us because my dad is also a hoarder, although not as bad as these people.

When my dad was still living with us, he had an office that he inhabited. Although this was a while ago (I was almost 14), I still remember the room being stacked from the floor to the ceiling with shit. I remember this being mostly newspapers and blankets, but I don’t really know what was in there. There was also a small tv and a strange kind of bed immediately in front of it, made up of several ratty blankets and maybe a few pillows. In and amongst this ‘bed’ were cutlery and dishes, trash, more newspapers, etc. This bed also served as the ‘hallway’ through all his crap, and was the only way to get from the door to the computer on the other side of the room.

When his mother (my grandmother) died, and her ashes were sent to our house, they went into this room. I’m positive that they are still somewhere in his shit, still in the cardboard box they were sent in. Just as a side note, my grandmother wanted her ashes scattered over my grandfather’s grave, who has been laid to rest in Belgium. My uncle, my father’s half-brother, made plans for a trip to Belgium to carry out his mother’s wishes. My father refused to let my uncle have the ashes. He insists that he is going to do it himself. Maybe my dad figures it is his right because my grandfather is my dad’s father, but did not father my uncle. I, personally, don’t think that my grandmother would want her ashes to permanently reside in my father’s home. This is the way it’s going to be though, because my father has made no plans to make the journey.

My mother claims to have tried to clean all of this shit up, little by little throwing things away behind his back, and although I believe her, I have no memory of this.

Now, my father has his own townhouse. When I was in high school, he managed to keep the downstairs clear so that I could “come over and watch the big screen.” (I’m assuming he bought it to lure me away from my mother’s house and bring his child support payments down, but really it made me resent him for buying something so expensive and unnecessary, when I was buying clothes for myself at the goodwill.) Besides for the downstairs, ‘my room’ and ‘my bathroom’ stayed clean, if only because I never spent any time in there. His room, the master bedroom, and his ‘storage room’, which is another small bedroom, in addition to the attic are were closed off and locked, and I was forbidden to even look into these rooms. Maybe I’ve watched too much Law and Order: SVU, but to me, this description almost makes it sound like my dad is keeping captive sex slaves in his home. I know that this is not the case. Behind those doors, I knew, I would find stacks and stacks of shit. Other than the time that I had a really bad broken nail, and tried to get into one of these rooms in search of a nail clipper, I never cared much to go inside.

Now that I’ve gone away to college, he has little motivation to keep the downstairs clean. This, apparently, has led him to stack the whole house with shit. He won’t let me come over anymore, his girlfriend of almost a year has never been over to his house. (Although, this may be due to the fact that she’s neurotic and scared of everything.)

Last time I saw my father, he offered me a job. He says he’ll pay me $20/hour to help him organize his house. I’ve agreed to do this, but watching this tv show is making me nervous. These people scream and fight for their shit to remain in their house, however unusable. There are people who have vats of excrement that they are unwilling to let go. People have rotting food and animal corpses and all kinds of strange shit hiding in their mountains of shit. Who knows what is going on at my father’s house?! Okay, I’m being a little dramatic, I don’t think I’m going to run into any of these problems with my dad, except for maybe a scolding or two for trying to throw away stuff that is clearly trash. But as a broke college student, that $20/hour sounds pretty sweet. . .

The Dream. . .

I had a dream last night. In the dream, I am at my house in California, in which a of congregation of Christian people are gathering. Inside my house are six churches, with six huge, ornate crosses. It is night, and I notice that all of the crucifixes have been turned upside down. I’m shocked, and try to figure out why the Christian people in my house are doing something disrespectful to their own religion, but I can’t think of any logical reason.

It cuts to a meeting of the Christian people that is run by a Korean man. My mom is at the meeting. They are deciding how they will conduct themselves in relation to the church in the future. I stand up and tell them the story of Jesus and what he taught, and I finish by telling them that I think they should flip the crosses right-side-up, and should change other behaviors of theirs that I thought were immoral.

It cuts again to after the meeting. My mom is telling me that I need to run away, and hide from the Christian people. She says that after the meeting in which more people voiced their opinions as I did, they all voted on who’s reasoning they most agreed with. My mom told me that only one person had agreed with me, and that everyone else sided with the Korean man, including herself. I quickly realize harm will be done to me if I don’t escape. I run around the sides of my house, praying that no one can see me through the windows, climb quickly up a tree, and jump from it. I’m flapping my arms and flying down the street that I live on. It’s hard, but I tell myself that if I keep doing it, I’ll be able to keep myself in the air easily.

New Life. . .

In the quiet hours of early morning, my baby blog is born. It is pushed out in glops and spurts from a space in me I never thought would foster life. As I am separated from it and it is exposed to the cold, cruel world, I promise to myself that I will give it all the attention and fuel it needs to thrive, and hope that others will accept it as worthy. My darling Baby Blog, I shall call you my own and we shall belong to each other; screw that John kid, he’s fat anyway. We shall be each other’s own.