Got an email from my sister
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On and off you read people who've decided to bury their weblogs, live journals, open diaries. Some coworker, family member, friend or lover discovers it and is either disgusted or has their feelings hurt. Fear of that it why most online journals are hidden by deplorably cute or self-preening pseudonyms.
With my name on every page at least twice and broadcast in the metadata I'm more of a flasher than one who only exhibits my weblogs in the web's back alleys.
About a week ago when an email arrived at work from my sister my business partner, Gordon, asked something like "What if she saw Pansexual Sodomite?" Since her comment today on one of my other weblogs said she'd found my website weeks ago I guess she already had.
My only fear was that she might see some of the things I've said about our Daddy. I don't repent a word of them. But she's ten years younger and had a very different relationship with him. I'm the son who confused, angered, worried him by not giving a damn about anything he liked and was clearly abnormal. Like many conventional people my father feared abnormality. To him being outside the norm meant being a lonely laughable outcast. Tough in many ways my father was a social coward.
By the time Staci entered elementary school he'd changed in many ways. Fifth's of whiskey and whores were a thing of the past. He hadn't hit my mother since I was four. Though sober and chaste his temper was as rough and cutting as ever. Not with Staci. She, as the clichés have it, was the apple of his eye.
By the time Staci was eight I was living in another city. Various failings and whims would bring me back to Savannah on and off. I knew my sister only distantly. She seemed for want of better words very conventional. Which was unfair. Some of us grow up out of sorts with the surrounding society; others appear to fit in it like the round peg in the round hole. Both species will take years grow into individuals. The wannabe avante gardist isn't necessarily any more distinct than the Happy Meal buyer. The former is just a member of a less often met cliché.
I haven't been home or seen Staci in about twenty years. Savannah, Georgia has changed mightily from a little I've read. Midnight at the Garden of Good and Evil made my home town even more of a tourist spot than it was when I left. The school I spent the first through the fourth grades in is now an Art School, a wonderfully American racket. Take a bunch of disaffected yokels (and others), tell them they can be creative and suck some money out of them. Then pack them off to paste together ads for weekly advertisers and (or) sit about coffee bars bemoaning bourgeois conventionality (as if their own tender asses were anything other than middle class).
This is an awfully longwinded way to say you got a nice email from your sister, isn't it?