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Last night I awoke feeling that I was in the presence of the purest hate and anger. Were I a Victorian writer I might say it radiated malignancy.
It wasn’t a nightmare; I wasn’t running from a monster. And the image persisted as if it weren’t a dream. Oddly I wondered if what I was sensing were myself. But I don’t think I’m evil, merely foolish.
As I tried to focus my intuition it seemed to be my father.
Eventually the presence faded. The impression that it was in some form my father did not.
I’ve often hoped for a clearer understanding of myself. But I’m wary of sudden insights, recollections from childhood.
But it did feel as if I’d recovered some part of my personal prehistory and encountered an almost archetypal perception of Daddy.
I’ll never really be able to know.
That much of who I am sexually, socially, temperamentally evolved in response to him has long been an axiom.
If that was a true sense of how I saw him as a little boy - baby - I’m even luckier than I’ve hitherto thought that my life wasn’t wholly poisoned.
(My adult perception of him has long since softened and matured: he was the real prisoner of his failings. If anything I owe him a debt for what I feel makes me distinctive.)