what i felt with dad was shame and fear. he didn't get me. he wished he had had more control and had made me better, if not to be normal and less of an embarrassment then perhaps to write his unwritten book. i think he held out hope til the end. i was too lazy. i was too anarchic, even for my own rule. (blogs didn't exist then, then they did, i started too late, he thought it was untenable, a public shame). he was the authority but only the author of my anarchy. we had the same body, the same mole, the same hunch, he couldn't contain me. neither can i. i'm just here, and he's gone, i'm wearing his reversible sweater. it's a snowstorm. my life is distorted, life is hard, it has no shape.