To: Poet who wrote (15295 ) 6/23/2002 7:10:18 PM From: E Read Replies (1) | Respond to of 21057 I was away all weekend, staying at a friend's empty studio, where there just happened to be a computer! So what could I do? You know why I got on her computer? Because it was there. A hotel has the advantage over a friend's place that one reads books instead of a monitor. I spent the past seventy-two hours trying to put this phenomenon of recounting history -- and repeating it endlessly -- into perspective. It's almost as though having a realtime conversation about the present is too....what? too overwhelming? then recounting the distant past. have you, or anyone else here, had experience with this? Yes, with my father, whose working life had made him feel important, successful, relevant, and to whom retirement, and the lessening of 'importance' and 'power' and 'control' was traumatic. The stories he told, over and over, were a way of reliving the parts of his life that made him feel like a man, recapturing that sense of himself. As he told the stories, which I knew word for word, he would become a different person, the depression would lift, he would become animated and regain 'presence,' confidence, the appearance of mastery. The painful thing was that he had all his buttons when he died at almost 94 (in an accident) (and he was healthy, and was still driving, and was sometimes mistaken for the son of his nonagenarian pals; I suspect had he not had that misadventure he would have made it to 100+), and so he knew exactly what was happening: that he was yielding to the impulse to tell (aka relive) a story he'd made me sit through dozens of times; but he wanted so desperately to enter the time machine that he couldn't resist telling it yet again. He would apologize, and continue.... I didn't mind. I found new questions to ask each time, pretended to have forgotten certain details. (I really loved my Daddy, Ms. Freud, whaddya got to say about that, hmmm? I mean, I not only loved him, I think he was a wonderful man. Admiration, all those things. When I was a child, i wished so desperately that he could be the president so there would be world peace and no more hunger. Sigh. If only it had worked out.) My mother had fewer intoxicating, happy memories in which to take refuge, poor woman, so she did it less. And: I just found out a moment ago that two of my pieces were accepted in an anthology. CONGRATULATIONS, Po, that is WONDERFUL!!!!!!!!!!