Typing With All My Fingers

I am now sitting firmly at a computer once again. Having reviewed my previous posts, I fear that you think I was drunk all last week. I say that somewhat wishfully. Although it didn't pass in an alcoholic haze, the week was like time outside of itself. Nothing in my normal life happened, but I had plenty of time to meditate on such timeless topics as death, parenthood, and memory.

One thing my time in Albany reminded me is that an unhappy family is truly ripe for literary exploration. My father's family, at each generation, seems like the most typical tale, and yet their insanity makes them far more interesting (to consider writing about) than my mother's funnier, larger crew. There's my Grandma Egitto, the Immigrant Girl who marries for security and is yet never happy nor secure. There's my grandfather: the Soldier, the Small Business Owner, first generation American. An Everyman, yet no one can describe him at his own funeral. His sons, the Rock 'n' Roller turned Entrepreneur, and the Prodigal Son, whose marriage, children and coming out were never embraced by his parents. And then there's my sister and I. Okay, there's nothing particularly interesting about us. But I would seriously write a novel about the rest of this family if it didn't involve traveling to Albany again to research the area.

The day after I got back, my little(r) guy took a spill and bumped his head. Out of precaution, we went to the doctor, who sent us to the ER. Not sure why a pediatrician can't order a CAT scan without sending us to the ER in an ambulance, but anyway, that is how Q and I spent Friday. So I am woefully behind in every sector of my life. Get back on the horse tomorrow, I figure.