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I still haven’t deleted this. I should soon

I still haven’t deleted this. I should soon

tobin
is to be be
yes, that’s me

"Hey dad. What’s up?"
I see him working on a blender. A younger me would have joined in. Peeking below his arm trying to pick apart the secrets my dad seemed to be a master of.
“I don’t know, mommy saying the blender is shaking. I’m just taking a look.”
You know, I can’t help but feel guilty when stuff like this happens. These little DIY projects were how me and my dad bonded when I was growing up. And I was always so enthusiastic about watching him work. It helped that he never directly tried to teach me anything.
“Daddy, what does that thingy do?”
“You wait and see”
“Daddy why did you take that piece out?”
“You’ll know just pay attention”
In fact, sometimes when I asked him something he wouldn’t even answer. He always seemed infinitely intent on what he was doing. Like by fixing this blender or toaster or sink, he was saving the world. And admired him for it. So much that I tried doing things like he did. My dad did more than just fix things, he created magic. If there were anything he could make better he would figure out a way to do it. Cheaply and quickly I might add. But not very good looking. One time the church donated a computer to us but we had no place to put it. Most people would buy a cheap computer desk. My dad made one. It was beautiful and functional and kind of amazing for someone who didnt know anything about carpentry. In fact he never had a trade growing up. But I’m going on a tangent.

I hadn’t seen my dad work on something in a long time. Not that he doesn’t, it’s just I’m usually not home. You see I work full time and I go to school on top of it. Also I tend to be with friends as often as I can so yeah. But this morning I was home and I woke up really late. An there I see my dad working on a 20 dollar blender trying to breathe it new life. It’s always an ordeal by the way. Like there’s this whole system. First he takes it and breaks it all open. Then for 20 minutes or more he’ll do nothing but stare at it. Move it around look at it from different angles and just keep looking. All the while my mom is complaining that he’s even trying to fix it and telling him to just buy a new blender. It’s funny, she never seems to believe that he’ll fix it but he always does. Then my dad goes to his desk and scribbles on a piece of paper. Not sketches or drawings, but literal scribbles. Squiggly lines here and dotter lines there and arrows pointing to other arrows which point to more squiggly lines. It makes no sense at all. Then he’ll bring his paper of squiggles over to the thing he’s working on and in a few minutes poof. It’s done. The whole process was like a magic ritual my dad had spent years perfecting. I’d always thought I could figure the trick out if I watched him closely enough, but I never did. So one day I gave up trying. Well it wasn’t just that. It was when I first went to college and I filled out a financial form. I learned something about our family that id never known. We were poor. My dad never really bought me stuff but id always thought it was to not spoil me. But I realized no he was just a poor provider. At least financially. Then the magic died. I didn’t care about his little mechanical experiments or diy projects. I didn’t care that he knew mystical secrets and could comment technology to his will. It all seemed so silly to me. So whenever he went about these things I just ignored it.
But this morning.
When I saw him dissecting that blender.
I missed my childhood so badly
And I missed knowing my wizard father
And me trying to decipher his sorcery

I don’t want to hurt you,
and I want you to be happy,
but I don’t love you anymore.
I miss your words

And your smell

This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.
Gary Provost  (via ambling)

Sweet clementine moments
Drizzled with bitter chocolates 
And salty caramels
With lavender fragrance
And Pearly undertones 

This is how I remember you
And it hurts so badly