"Freedom has a scent
like the top of a newborn baby's head"
[U2, "Miracle Drug"]

Or, alternately, it may smell like furniture freshly-wiped with Orange Glo.

My "office" at Liza-Ann's is half-done. In a few weeks we'll have high-speed internet in here, and already I'm sitting in it typing on one of my older computers. I'm hoping to pick up writing again as part of my life change with the moving-in and all. The general plan was to have just about everything except my computere moved in before I head to Montreal on vacation, and then get the high-speed and move the computer just after I return. Until we head west we still need the room as a spare bedroom regularly for babysitters, but come the end of August, Olivia will be going to daycare, freeing up the room somewhat (it'll still be the guest room when we have someone stay over, though I'm hoping to trade the bed for a futon).

This all comes none-too-soon, really, as I think my father is pretty much hopping up and down on my last nerve, and has been for some time. It's hard to spend time there nowadays knowing I cringe every time he enters the room, unsure whether I'll be enduring another hair-brained rant about something rudimentary ("can't leave your windows open at night, they'll warp!"), a not-so-sweeping story about someone I've never met but who has either contracted cancer or had a limb amputated or some similar tragedy, or perhaps a tirade about how my siblings, the doctor, the mayor, or just about anyone other than myself or him are idiots and the root of all evil in the world. (Incidentally, I'm only excluded face-to-face, his tirades to others will be sure to include me, I have no doubt.) That last one happens less often these past few months than before, thankfully, following a proper diagnosis and correct medication (which only took some 70 or so years to figure out - medical "science" is more of an art, but let's save that gem for another day).

Those who don't know my father will just think I'm being bitter, and that he's undoubtedly a sweet old man that just has a rocky relationship with his son, but let me assure you there's far more to the story than that, and more than I'm willing to get into here. Let's just say I have more patience for Olivia's minor tantrums than his, largely because she's easier to reason with.

So this move is both a "to" and a "from". I'm looking forward to living with Liza-Ann and Olivia, while at the same time also looking forward to not living with Dad. I'm really hoping that the distance and the sense of sanctuary (at long last) will give me a renewed spirit and allow me to approach him with a healthier, more patient attitude. I doubt the man has many more years left to this world, and while I fully believe the best years of his life are well behind him, I'd still like, as much as able (which really isn't much), to see him at least a little happy between now and the inevitable.

The sad and ironic thing is that the biggest obstacle to his happiness is himself (but then, of whom can't I say that?): he steadfastedly refuses to let go of the house and consider a home, and so spends his time alone and miserable, whereas a more social environment would see him much happier if he'd only give in. Unfortunately, he doesn't listen to his children, so we can't talk him into it. Instead we sit idly by waiting for his girlfriend or sister-in-law to sell him on the idea. (He used to listen to the doctor, until he suggested a home, and I believe he's now joined the rest of us on "the unheaded list" from here on out.)

>insert complete lack of good segue<

I'm slowly developing more of a relationship with Olivia, and becoming more comfortable with the idea of myself as a ... I'm still hesitant to refer to myself as a "parent", but I think I've moved from "friend" to "mentor" at least. I'll get there. By the time I'm teaching her fractions and turning her Taoist I'm sure I'll be comfortable with a term like "stepfather". And by now I'm much more comfortable with the day-to-day, of course. Thinking back, I don't actually even recall how long ago it was I wrote, or where things were back then.

This was your "update" entry. I'll be back to "trying to inspire thought" post-haste.