My dad died. He was the first of my 4 dads so far in this life. He was the blood one. And though he didn't raise me, and I wasn't always in touch with him, I felt always deeply a part of him, spiritually, physically, mythically. He was an idealist, a seeker, a man slanted in his attentions very far towards the ethereal and the theoretical side of reality, and paid only grudging attentions to material life. If he'd had more discipline and less wanderlust he might have been a monk. But he created his life as a sort of unorthodox monastery.

He left me with memories, a library of books, from modern physics and pop music to ancient Eastern philosophy, and a large volume of his journals and writings. And reading the drug-addled ramblings, bitter complaints, wacky conspiracy theories, gentle contemplations, earnest proclamations of love (many for me, even!), heartbreaking regrets, hopeful plannings, grandiose prophesies, and yearnings for truth, I feel grateful to know him in this way. I feel an uncomfortable element of disturbed privacy, but I'm comforted that his conceit would have wanted his writings read.

I'm still a Marxist, a dialectical materialist... and I find myself in mid-life drawn further and further back toward the middle of the "spectrum" of material and ideological reality. The birth of my daughter began this, and the death of my father continues it. I feel the tension of these "opposing" worlds growing in intensity. I'm practicing the psychic splits. In one way, I know it's all the same. I'm mostly calm in my "knowing" of "non-dual" reality. But in practice... in dealing with various humans in various endeavors, there's usually some explaining to do.
And so here I go, learning more words to help me explain the unexplainable.

Thanks, Dad.