[continued from previous message]   
      
   > My mother was a wonderful parent.  She was fun to be with, spent all of   
   > her day with my siblings and I, and was always encouraging our   
   > creativity.  (She was also beautiful, looked like a movie star, well   
   > educated/a school teacher, and was loved by everyone who met her.)  I   
   > have nothing but good memories of her.  My mother thought that I (and my   
   > siblings) were the greatest children ever born -- and inadvertently   
   > contributed to any narcissistic tendencies I might have today.  She   
   > enrolled me in dance and music classes, the Cub Scouts, bought me   
   > presents for each of my recitals (including a pet lamb), and was   
   > convinced that I was going to grow up to be a movie star.   
      
   That's helpful; it doesn't contradict my theories but rather supports   
   them.   
      
   > She did believe in corporal punishment, as did most parents of her   
   > generation.  IIRC, you said the same thing in defense of your parents --   
   > although keeping you in the house doing chores all day, refusing to   
   > allow you in the living because "boys are filthy," and whipping your   
   > bare ass every night go far beyond corporal punishment.   
      
   Incidentally, Lying Michael, they go far beyond anything you've read in   
   my poem or anything I've told you about it later, as well. I can   
   understand how desperate you are to change the subject to that poem of   
   mine - if you do succeed, of course, I'll just move things to a new   
   thread and leave this one open to write in after you've moved on.   
      
   > My mother would   
   > never have treated me in such an unloving manner.  Hell, I'd tie up her   
   > guests while they sat in the living room chairs, and she'd just laugh   
   > and tell them I was just having fun -- which was quite true, although   
   > her guests often failed to appreciate it.   
      
   You'd "tie up the guests" a la Red Chief and your mother would laugh at   
   them? I suppose you didn't get many repeat guests.   
      
   > My father was also handsome, in a dark, Sicilian kind of way.  He was   
   > even more intelligent than my mother, but since he worked all day, he   
   > wasn't as involved with us as my mother.  He did make time for us   
   > though, taking us fishing, digging for antique bottles with me in the   
   > woods behind our house.  He rarely hit us when my mother was alive --   
   > and then, only when we did something really bad ("Wait till your father   
   > gets home!").  He suffered an emotional breakdown for two years after my   
   > mother's death, during which time he was prone to bouts of physical   
   > violence. I always stood up to him, but a 12-year old boy can't do much   
   > against a 47-year old man.   
   >   
   > After the first 6 months, his violent outburst gradually became less   
   > frequent, and had stopped altogether by the time two years had passed.   
   > He felt bad about it, and did his best to make it up to me for the   
   > remainder of his life (he passed 11 years after my mother).  He even   
   > bought me an MG! He died when I was 23.  He'd been disabled by a series   
   > of strokes three years prior to his death, and I returned from the Navy   
   > to take care of him.   
      
   That last is interesting. Is that what you meant about "finally getting   
   the upper hand" in your relationship with him?   
      
   > Unlike the self-admittedly autobiographical narrator of your poem, I've   
   > never wanted to go back to my childhood home and burn it down.  In fact,   
   > I was deeply saddened when the new owners made it over, making it almost   
   > unrecognizable.  I often daydream about buying and putting it back the   
   > way it was in the 1960s and 70, with all of the flowers and blossoming   
   > bushes and trees my father planted.   
      
   I've read that is the normal response to unresolved issues from one's   
   childhood: wanting to go back and fix it all up. But that wouldn't make   
   for a very dramatic ending to a work of fiction and remember, as I told   
   you, I was writing dramatic fiction, not autobiography.   
      
   > Except for my mother's untimely death and my father's consequent   
   > breakdown, I had an excellent childhood -- insofar as my relationship   
   > with my parents went.  We were far from rich (lower middle income at   
   > best by my grandmother's estimation) but my parents spoiled us rotten.   
   > We had a swing set, a jungle gym, a swimming pool, and a tent in our   
   > back yard, dozens of pets, they turned their den into a toy room and   
   > filled it up with toys (my father built us a huge three compartment toy   
   > box to keep them in, and grew up thinking that we were rich.   
   >   
   > In many ways, my childhood was as far removed from yours as possible.   
      
   > But, yes.  During the time of my father's breakdown, I have no doubt   
   > that I endured far more severe physical beatings than you ever did.   
   > Best of times/worst of times, as Charles Dickens would say.   
      
   That is not what you said earlier, MMP. In the quoted text you   
   distinctly mention that you fled from and fought both your parents.   
      
   >> thanks. I have no idea if anyone will even read them here, aside from   
   >> you and I, but if I don't get them down then no one ever will.   
   >   
   > Enjoy yourself psychoanalyzing the above.  And, speaking of literary   
   > characters, my Grandmother always compared me to O. Henry's "Red Chief."   
      
   It may be good background material, but for now it will just go into the   
   file with all the rest.   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)