Most of this year's pictures are on the laptop, so I am in the process of uploading them so I can download them on the computer with a creative program, the computer in the garage.
I'm finding that all the pictures and all the conversations they conjure up, all the moments that come to mind are cataloged in my brain as 'Before Death and After Death' of my dad. Some of them, like the ones that I very much would like to use because they include so much family, are the most hazy in my mind. Taking the kids on a plane? I hardly remember it- how the fuck did I do it? The memory barely exists. The time frame is so incomplete in my mind.

Each day passes and it is much easier than the previous. I'm room mom for second grade. I'm helping with art every Thursday for four hours. CCD Wednesdays. Reformatting the screenplay. All to keep my mind busy. Insanity to distract me from the insanity.
I'm looking forward to the holidays. Halloween is the kick off for us. I've watched It's A Wonderful Life several times this year already.

Some damn show I've been watching had this seen where the asshole main character tells his wife that all grief is, is a person wallowing in self-pity. It felt like a slap in the face when I heard it. That line stayed with me. I hate it and I treasure it.

Yes, there is much coming up. Now we know for sure that we will be remaining in our home, so along with holiday crap, there are household projects I've had on hold that I can now busy myself with. J wants to have a baby book like M's. Another project I have not had time or funds for that I'm looking forward to. This projected in particular I'm looking forward to the most. The pictures from J's first year are full of happiness and joy.
Getting tired. I've been wanted to write here for a few nights- glad I finally did.

When I realized earlier this evening that today was the six month anniversary of my dad's death, my intention was to write about my feelings regarding the past months- how it has all moved along since that day.

I've reread some of the journal entries I made in late March, through the beginning of September. I just want this sick feeling to pass. That is how I'm feeling. Sick to my stomach. I want to vomit. When I found out my dad was very likely dead, I puked. Once in the break room of the job I go to five days out of the week and then I puked some more in the dimly lit, chic bathroom. Later that night at home, sitting up with Tim, several hours after it had been confirmed that my dad was in fact dead, I took a shower and threw up more.

I'm going to bed now. Tomorrow I will have moved beyond the first six months of my dad's death. Tomorrow the first six months will be behind me. Over. Past tense.

Going to bed now with much nausea.

There was some neighbor drama around here yesterday- nearly trumpeted all the back to school energy. People were loud, I was banging on doors, screaming, threats were made. It was all very exhilarating in the sleepless moments of a typically quiet holiday morning. But this evening, at work when I began to recount the events to a poor soul, I was immediately bored with it. Hearing the words come out of my mouth, the anxiety inducing story had lost its interest. My listener was on the edge of her seat. I gave her the account of it, but half way through I regretted bringing the topic up. There isn't even any anxiety about crossing paths with the selfish neighbors. I mention this because most of the day yesterday I worried about that. Especially with my two, outwardly, friendly children who engage most all our neighbors with confidence. While enjoying my Labor Day beef ribs I was playing out the scenario as it might occur, tying to come up with the best possible way to flip the bird with out one of the two witnessing. Today I'm just not caring anymore about clarifying my dislike for these people at any moment. They suck. I know they suck. All the other neighbors who were subjected to their selfish rudeness know they suck. Let karma get them. I have more important things to plague myself with.

Last night I had a dream, it began on a train with my Tia Sylvia and Terry. We walking down the center aisle of the train between seats where people sat looking out the windows. As I walked and swayed I suddenly couldn't walk any further. Something was in front of my legs not allowing them to go forward. I looked down and it was my dad's arm. He was sitting in the seat to my right, and had extended his arm into the aisle. I looked at his arm for a long time, most of the dream was my vision fixated on his arm and hand. Just this view allowed me to recognize him well before I looked down to the right.
When I had, he had his right arm out on the table in front of him. There was something on this other arm. I squatted down to be eye level with the table and get a better look at what was on him, on that same arm where my name, my sister's name and my mother's name were tattooed to him. It was a spider. A huge, ugly spider. I looked at dad. He swayed an moved with the motion of the train, I couldn't look him in the eyes. He said, "It doesn't matter." I can't describe the expression on his face, not with confidence. I looked down the aisle way where my aunt and Terry were far ahead of me.

Now standing fully upright, I looked back at dad and the spider. I looked ahead and hesitated on walking away from him. I don't think I did.
But in the next moment, we three women were now walking through a bustling mercado. It was loud and I heard everyone only speaking Spanish. This time we were much closer to one another, trying hard to weave in and out of the mass of happy, busy, life. We all stopped and the two who were ahead of me single file looked back at me. With no words, I knew they were telling me to go back for something I had forgotten. They stood still, like statues among the movement happening all around, and I ran back the way we came. I got to a table, a booth, and my dad sat there. This time, on the left. He was wearing a tank top and just sat there looking at me with those icy green eyes. I sat across from him. After a long time, he stood up slowly and started walking through the people, back the way I had come from. He kept looking back at me, he would wait before beginning again when I fell behind. We were suddenly with my aunt and Terry but they couldn't see dad. I was excited for us all to be together but they acted like I was crazy. They began being angry. Then that big spider appeared on my dad, who was still standing with us. It crawled all over him, really fast. Jumping from one shoulder to his face, then to his stomach and then to the other arm. I was pleading with my family, to see one another. I wanted my dad to say something. Very angry, Tia Sylvia and Terry left me standing there with my dad and the spider and everyone partying around us, as if we weren't there. I stopped shouting and pleading with them and him once his sister and his love walked away. We just stood there. With the spider crawling all over my dad.

And it was super. It was a long awaited get-away. Nothing gives me more pleasure than being a kid with my kids. Having them, being with them, loving them is the ultimate spiritual replenishment this life has.

I have a bunch of crap written in fragments in Semagic and in my notepad but nothing has jelled to my liking.
My friend Ruth sent me some books to help me refocus on the screenplay which, come hell or high water I will be submitting to that Academy contest in the spring. I'm into those books right now, and as always reading massage stuff.

One of my clients gave me this book about Curanderas, written by a Curandera. She's relating my massage & prayer & 'home maintenance' suggestions for her with this business. I'm still just getting into it so I haven't found the connection she (client) has formulated. We'll see.

I saw a movie, Insomnia for the second time a few nights ago. It was to satisfy the curiosities brought up about Alaska's crazy day/night bullshit they deal with. Plus I know a family who just moved up there PLUS I'm a bit sleep deprived these days. Not because the sun won't go away but because sleep= nightmares. Again. I had a good break there for a minute. It started up again pretty severe.
The movie was okay. Robin Williams just doesn't frighten me, or provoke the needed eeriness a murderer ought to for the movie to be effective. Oh well.

At the end of the month I'm going to Monterey to get rid of the shot gun. With some family. I've rented a deep sea fishing boat to take it out. To drop it in the ocean. What can I say, like a good Catholic I'm all for a ritual.
I thought a lot about my dad on my birthday. About all my birthdays he had missed. About the gifts he and mom gave me. About all the years of no gifts. One year he had been on a hunting trip and brought me home a dove. One year he told me his .44 was mine, that he was holding on to it for me. I missed him most when I'd hear J loving up her daddy. Thinking about how important he is to her and how much my dad would really get a kick out of what a character she is. Hearing about all the celebrity deaths, the one that gave me pause was Farrah Fawcett. I thought how dad and his brothers are smiling that they can get a crack at her now. I'm not filled with sadness, it does reside here but with it is love and acceptance.
Tim told me of a quote from some crime novel dude, where the guy discusses his deceased mother. The dude lost his mom when he was a kid and the murderer of her was never caught. Dude says something like, there's no such thing as closure. Closure doesn't exist. My mom is a part of my life, I talk to her everyday. I'm feeling that. Every day that passes I'm feeling that more and more. Moving beyond the shock doesn't equate to closure. The definition of closure is 1. the act of closing; the state of being closed. 2. a bringing to an end; conclusion. 3. something that closes or shuts. This isn't the state of my relationship with my dad. My dad is still in my life and as long as I'm breathing, he will be.

There is an extra desire to sleep tonight but can't. The movie I went to last night didn't get out until well after midnight and once I got home, well the sleep just didn't come. I'd blame the new, smaller bed but whenever I move to the couch it still don't come.

I'd like to say I'm laying off the cafe, but I should be at zilch. My intake is about two cups, maybe more-- depending upon how restless my night before was.

This evening I have been going through old photos of my dad. All are online, provided on disk by one of my aunts. Many are my own that I scanned and emailed/shutterflied at the end of March. The more I look at them, now in chronological order, they tell the story. A great deal of it I know all too well, but the first half of the story, the creation of the man is there. The man who once drown all our baby kittens when I was a child. My father, who I silently wished death upon was small and young and has a consistent look of betrayal in his eyes. Some of the pictures he is the age of my boy. Around age 6-7 he has this look of being beaten, mentally. He appears hungry and tired and disappointed. I ache to see them. He had been in so much pain for so long. They depict the bits of moments dad had described to me during my childhood. They filled in gaps of time he never mentioned. Those pictures are the story my dad left that tell of how he was molded into what he became.

I'm ashamed of myself. I feel shame for sitting here with the air conditioning on. I feel ashamed for all the creature comforts I surround myself with. I want to hurt for him. I feel like somebody should be doing something for him now, since no one did anything for him when he needed it most- as a child. Is that desire to hurt misguided? Or silly?

The movie I went to last night was Star Trek. That stupid show dad would insist on watching whenever it would be on. I've see all the episodes thousands of times, all the movies at least once because of that man. When I told my friends I wanted to see it, we spoke of our familiarity with the show/cast/movies. And I expressed what a nuisance it was to have my dad be such a fan- of everything sci-fi really. Then last night, I went to the movie. I sat there and kept thinking how dad would have loved it! Was he watching it because I was there watching it? I was able to make several connections in the movie with episodes from the show that my friends watching it with me were unfamiliar with. All thanks to my dad.

When I was in that little booth last weekend next to my priest's I began to tell him how I have been disrespectful and judgmental of my parents. He began to make light of it and said, "Isn't that what we talked about last time?" and I could hear a smile on his lips. I told him my dad had died since that last time I'd been there. He made some statements, threw out a couple prayers then asked me if I believed my dad was with God. I told him no. There is shame in that thought, too. I feel ashamed for not trusting God's love is immense enough to forgive dad. I feel shame for my dad destroying God's greatest gift.

I'm going to bed now and I'm not going to fall asleep for a long while. I'll lay there saying Hail Marys and forgetting what part I just said. M will come in and lay on his dad's bed and sing good morning songs to me and I'll pretend I'm still asleep at least until 7a. At seven I'll come out of the room with my eyes down hoping very hard that when I look up my front room will be the front room of March 22nd, 2009. But it won't be.

Tio David, Tio Richard, my dad Carlos cir.1958

What is it that gives me the will power I have and you the will power you have?

In a close relationship I've currently been nurturing, my recovery has been focused on quite a bit. My friend is "amazed" by and "admires" my ability to be sober. This friend is a drunk and has made several attempts to become sober. This difference in our sobriety brings to mind many thoughts and questions.

1. A parallel comes to mind between my father never becoming sober and my mission to remain sober; the parallel being each of us driven by stubbornness. Also, how fundamentally necessary to live sobriety is for me as remaining an active alcoholic was for my dad.
2. Why and how is my will power any different than anyone else's?
3. Why can a person be so easily tempted by something they have used and know first-hand the negative affects?
4. Is addiction weakness?
5. If I am on some pursuit to have power over my addiction, (power over my life) which at the end of the journey is simply to achieve pleasure, why has sobriety so closely embraced the notion that I am powerless against my addiction?

Mainly my dilemma is #5, what my brain is stuck on is this paradox. I respectfully disagree when a person tells me, "you have great will power". I HAVE NO POWER. I have faith that God is cradling me, caring for me and watching over me to guide me through each and every moment of weakness. I have moments of weakness because I lack strength. It's possible, my complimentary friend likes to call me 'stable' - 'strong' and whatever else because then, looking in the mirror, the friend can choose to not see these qualities and has handy excuse to stay drunk. Less will power and more faith in a higher power. I guess this means my original question should be : What gives me the faith I have vs. the faith you have.

I recognize the concept of will power- tho it has nothing to do with my sobriety.

I guess there were no 12 step programs around when Nietzsche and them were tearing it up.

I gave 30 days notice at Holistixs. Danielle, the gal I have been sharing the space with is all for change. I'm not as eager but getting used to the idea.

With clarity comes reality. I'm seeing people/relationships with a lighter heart than I had just a few weeks ago. If I use the word DISAPPOINTED I suggest I had a higher expectation. Of course looking back I guess I did have a higher expectation- maybe without being aware of it during various encounters. With age comes life experience and hopefully insight. Any words of wisdom are appreciated. Anything positive is welcomed. Where am I going with this?

It sucks that the people I hold in the highest regard have been the most hurtful, unfeeling, unsympathetic and spiteful. Can't fuckheads give me a few months before treating me like a piece of shit? Avoidance isn't the same as providing space. Hey-- guess what???? That hate you're feeling is one sided. I only have love for you. One of my parents died. My dad died. I am saddened by this. I am struggling each day with this. This will pass. I'm confident this difficulty will be behind me some day, could those of you who are eager to shit all over please just give me some time to heal, I promise I'll still be here for you to shit on.

The anxiety attacks are minimal now. I'm doing my best to stay away from that Xanex stuff- because the day after I take any, I feel really quickened and although I'm not upset, I feel my body wants more. Eewww. I'm not about that. The thoughts of particular conversations over the past several weeks play over and over in my mind- some were not even my conversations, they are ones that involve my life and the details were shared with me. I'm trying to let these thoughts go. I'm trying to focus on the future. It's so damn hard when the people who are supposed to be emotionally supportive are unkind. This is not the time to be confrontational. This is not the time to be hateful. I wish I knew why the people I love most are so self centered. Right now I must be self centered. I am grieving. I will not have negatives surround me. I am trying to heal. Why must I explain this? If you don't get it, go fuck yourself.

It's likely I was still seventeen, maybe eighteen by then. For sure, I was living in Campbell and Dad and Terry had already been in Santa Clara for sometime. They called me from a friend's house in Manteca in the afternoon. Thinking back now, I remember doubting it was a friend, it was more like a drug dealer. Alright, so let's give elders the benefit of the doubt and say they were in fact calling from a friends place. This friend was not a good enough friend to drive them home. So they called me. I was driving that beat up, orange, one-side-missing-paneling, '74 Pinto wagon. The longest drive we had been on, was to that beach just south of Davenport where you could stay overnight. Dad gave me directions to the friend's house and back in the days before the cell phone, he and I did our best to be crystal clear I knew where I was going.
Driving this afternoon east on 580 I had a flashback to this trip to rescue my dad. The dingy, caramel hills on the horizon, I've seen since that day in my Pinto but I'm thinking now that since that day, today is the first time since that I've driven it.



So back then, on my rescue mission, I got to this friend's house who was a family man of sorts. He had a wife and kids clambering around when I showed up. Dad told me his van had broken down on the freeway so many miles farther east. Dad had "some stuff in there that could not be left overnight", plus he wanted to go back to try and get the thing running. The friend offered to drive us all back, apparently, I was a safety measure in case the van did not get going. I insisted on driving my dad and Terry myself. This pleased dad, I remember him asking repeatedly how my little car did. And if I had any trouble with the clutch (I learned to drive a clutch upon purchase of the vehicle). It was getting late and I was hot as hell in my car without air conditioning. I encouraged us moving things along, also pleasing dad when I used his constant catch phrase "We're burning daylight"*.

Terry rode in front, I made dad sit in back and I drove. He did not get the van running. He took many parcels out of the van and put them in the back of my car. We headed back to Santa Clara with the sun setting. Dad drank beers the whole way. Among the cargo he retrieved from the van was a case or so of Coors. We talked as I drove. Dad loved to reminisce about what a great father he was. And about all the great memories from my childhood...as he poured them back. Probably because I was chatting too, I was driving pretty slow. Somewhere on 101-S I got pulled over. My dad hid all his empty beer cans under the clothes/blankets in the back seat. The cop came to my side. He asked something, I think he asked if something was wrong with my car. Before coming out with a coherent answer he asked who was drinking. He shined his flashlight in my eyes several times and said, "I know you're not drinking but somebody in here's been. All of you, step out." As we all got out {Keep in mind- at this time, I was getting pulled over by cops often. My average for being pulled over from age 18-20 was 2x's per month. My car was a magnet, plus I was pretty cute} I started explaining how I'd never drink while driving, why, I was under age! It wasn't legal for me to be drinking. Simultaneously Terry is explaining how they just had their van break down and please can't we just get home, it's been a long day. After humoring our pleas the copper told my dad, "Sir, you can't have an open container. I have a feeling you knew that. Okay, get back in." He says to me," Look, you're a good kid to drive you dad home like this. Let's all get home safe now."

Tomorrow I get to go to the place his ashes were spread. He is on my mind, now more than normal. I still think he's a selfish bastard. All his selfishness is incredibly endearing. There's no one like him.

*the quote isn't dad's originally, if you're not familiar with it, it's from an old John Wayne flick.

I could be up all night, now that I have begun.

Sort of the reason why I have put off writing here. Since the AA meeting I went to one week ago tonight, I have 'written' in my brain many passages. Timing has been essential, and at the moments I have felt most mentally prepared to sit down and record my thoughts, I am handed more to processes/manage. The load is heavy. Which brings me to the thoughts from that very night at AA. A Big Book meeting, which I chose because it's been about 7 years since I've opened the big book. I walked in last week to a small meeting room in a La Jolla clinic as the gents had already begun going around the room introducing themselves, "______, alcoholic." They were all men. They all looked at me as I entered. None seemed to look away as I stood there. Finally, there was a break in introductions and I rose my hand, waved a little and spit out, "Gilda, alcoholic. Is this a mens meeting?" The response from many voices, NO came back so I scurried to the front of the room, where the only seats remained. In a snug, black dress, cowboy boots, with my straightened hair down I could feel sweat on the nape of my neck, causing my hair to begin to curl and tickle my back.
We went around the room, taking turns reading from Chapter 7, Working With Others. And I sat there, quite nervous, and remembered my first day of high school. I had gotten on the wrong bus that morning. The bus driver of the bus I ended up on finally drove me to Piedmont Hills after he dropped off somewhere else, not sure what school. This big, black, old, seasoned bus driver walked me to the school office where we were directed to my first period class- Electronics. We entered the room, the bus driver said something from the doorway to the teacher, who invited me to sit. I cannot remember the drivers words because as he spoke, all the heads in the classroom turned to look at the late person-- a sea of boys stared at us. The only seats left in class were in the front row. As Mr. Balcomb spoke I could feel all eyes on me. As I set down my book bag, my purse, and took off the big, black hat I wore, giggles and whistles began.
Nervous about what will/won't come out of my mouth.
Last week went much smoother than ninth grade. The dude running the meeting had been calling on people to read. He looked up at me and asked, "Gilda? Is that right?" I nodded and began reading: "We meet these conditions every day. An Alcoholic who cannot meet them, still has an alcoholic mind; there is something the matter with his spiritual status. His only chance for sobriety would be some place like the Greenland Ice Cap, and even there an Eskimo might turn up with a bottle of scotch and ruin everything! Ask any woman who has sent her husband to distant places on the theory he would escape the alcohol problem." Then a few others read. And finally the meeting comes to the point of discussion. After several people are called on, the fellow in the front who had been looking my way each time I looked up finally asked if I had anything to offer to the discussion. My response was in reference to spirituality and opportunity. "It's been about eight years since I've been to a meeting. I've been sober for all of 'em. About a month and some ago my dad died and since then I've been having a hard time. It's been a real, real hard time. I've always gone out a lot, since I've been sober, and being in a bar, being around people drinking never made me drink or want to drink. I accepted back then, that I just can't. It's this loneliness, the feeling of isolation that brought me here. Booze is always around. I just haven't wanted the drunk until now. I feel like I'm supposed to be drunk. My spirituality has been shaken. Again, since my husband and I separated I've had a lot of doubt in my faith and God and with this now, I'm in trouble. There are many people in my life, in my family who are supportive but I know I need my Group Of Drunks. My God is here and I just really need to be here right now." This was all said sort of in the direction of the meeting's leader, only because he was sitting directly across from me. I feel I came off pretty intense. I was fighting back tears as I began to speak and could feel my chin quivering as the words came out. A few other people spoke after me but I was fumbling around, trying to become comfortable again in my skin after I said the words I've been feeling out loud. Shaking, I stood when it was time for the closing prayer. Several people approached me after to welcome me. Three different men assured me there were usually two to four other women who attended and to come back. The motto. Keep coming back.
Walking to the car after, with the cool ocean breeze gently bringing my body temperature back to a normal, reasonable state, I was so happy to have that first meeting behind me. I thought to myself the next meeting will be more productive. I will be back.

Tonight, I did not go back. I did not go back because I had to make another set of curtains for my office. I had to make another set of curtains for my office because the owner had one of the windows replaced, and in doing so, the fixed window covering was removed. My feeling, is that the owner had this window replaced in preparation for a new tenant.
Last week, as I finished a session and was on my way out, I ran into the owner. She and I chatted. The topic of my metal health was on the table. After I spilled a little, she told me that last year, right after I began renting space there, a woman came in and looked at the whole property, for a space to rent for her aesthetics practice. The owner did a tour at that time and didn't hear back from the woman until now. This beautician presented Rhonda with a proposal to take over a large space, which would include my office. She said she didn't know where I was, if with the recent death I would be relieved to give up my space. Or if I might want to go to renting hourly. She said she didn't know if this was the right moment to drop this on me but, here it is! She added that this person was offering a five year lease and wants to completely redo the space she would occupy. I immediately expressed how much I love my space. How much it means to me, to my family, to my clients. I did not tell her this is the absolute worst time to throw more change my way. I did not say how I think any more shifting/juggling/changing in my life will drive me who knows where. I did not say you're a fucking money-driven fake who sold me on the concept of being in a holistic environment where I would be supported and nurtured by others who have the same intentions as I do: to heal people. I did ask when this might take place. She said it would be July- but she had not given the person interested an answer yet. She said it was a huge decision and she wanted to get input from me and the other tenants first.
So, I made more curtains tonight but I'm not sure how long they will be up. I got to Holistixs after leaving Catechism early. I left Catechism early because I had no students come to class. I saw some of my students there, at school, but they did not come to class. Two were sitting in the hall, playing a hand-held game. One was sort of moseying around the halls, sort of annoyed. I went to the second grade class to tell the Catechism director I would be leaving. On my way back to eight grade, the two kids from class followed me in. They went and got their books, I said, "Peace out." They looked at each other and seemed a bit surprised. I said, "Class started at 5:30. Not 6. We don't have time to do the crap I have for you. See you next week. And nobody's here." One said, "We're here! You have two students right here." I said, "Who have been in the hall way for half an hour. I'm out." Just then the wanderer walked in, saw me packing up and walked back out.
I put a lot of time and energy into that class and after going to pick up the shot gun that killed my dad, I'm a little insensitive to the bullshit of the eighth-grader's mind. I tried. I showed up, prepared and ready to do my thing and to get ignored/disrespected, for something I'm volunteering for? I'm not sorry I left.
This morning, after me, Tim and J dropped M off at school, we drove up to Parris (not The City of Lights) to pick up my dad's 12 gage. I suppose it's my 12 gage. On the way up, I called Terry to let her know we were coming, and to ask if it would be kosher to invite my Nana and Tia to come see us there. I didn't want to cut my time with Terry short to drive across Hemet for the visit. If it could be coordinated that they come, awesome. I had to leave these thoughts in a voice mail.
As we got off the freeway Let It Be by the Beatles came on the radio. It played until we parked and I got out of the car to go into the coroners office.
In the coroners office I waited in the same wait room I waited in the last time I was there. My dad sat in the same place, I stood at the same window.
I waited, and talked to him about how he taught me to mourn. I remember visiting my Godfather's grave with my dad. Sometimes he would talk to him, directing his eyes to either the headstone or the sky. Sometimes we would go on rainy days. There was a gazebo near his grave, and dad and I would sit there. We would talk. Sometimes we would just sit there and get wet. But my dad always, always brought my Nino a beer. He always brought him a can of Coors and put it at his headstone. My dad would stand there, or sit, and drink a beer with him. One year, I had gotten a new bike for Christmas. The bike came with these strips of shiny, silver reflective stickers. I had them in my pocket when we got to the cemetery and I put them on the tree next to my Nino's grave. That day, it was just me and dad. He told me, for the first time, "You know, you can talk to him." I looked up at his sad face. He went on, "Just say out loud, whatever you want. What happened today. Or what happened yesterday. He's right here. Just talk."

I talk to my dad. I talk to him where ever I am. I try not to talk to him when other people are around. When I feel him, and I want to talk to him but other people are around, I give him a nod, or a wink, to acknowledge his presents but we'll talk later. It's different, having him cremated. He is the first person in my life who I know personally to be cremated. And since his ashes were scattered, I feel him everywhere. Him being scattered, in my mind, put him with the earth=with the winds=into the atmosphere=among the clouds=everywhere. I don't feel like I have to go to a place to talk to him. He is with me, when I'm pissed off at him, when I'm happy with my kids, when I'm angry/sad/scared with the world in general. I have already planned a trip to Northern California to be with him in Sonora. My motivation is to be in the setting of his preference. He loved that country side. I want to absorb that place where he was most happy. I want to be there in its every state. My heart races at the thought of being there, I feel it pleases him. I still miss him. Location is simply location. I will miss him as I stand in the place I stood that day we scattered his ashes. But to be in the place he escaped to makes me feel as though he and I are escaping together, to a better frame of mind together.

That last night I saw my dad, when I dropped him off at my Nana's in Hemet he was in this big hurry to leave as I was leaving. I was sure he was off to the liquor store since he didn't have a drop of booze while he was with us. It was late. I had walked him inside, used the facilities. As I was stretching and readying to leave he grabbed the keys to his truck off a wall in the kitchen. I offered to drive him somewhere but he said he had to get some toiletries. Clearly, it was some hygiene item he didn't want me to witness him purchasing. Honestly, I didn't mind heading back home ASAP. He walked me out. We hugged in the drive way. I thanked him for coming and told him I hope he could come really, really soon. I told him, "I love you so much. The kids love you so much. This was such a good visit. I've missed you." He said, "Oh, mija, dad loves you. You know that. And those kids, they are really good kids." I hugged him the whole time and said, "You have to come back soon, dad. I don't want this much time to go by again." He told me to drive safe and call when I got home. I nodded and got in the Hyundai just as he jumped in his truck.
I drove back the way I came, which was not the way dad had instructed me to go. He asked me to go a more direct route, on the main drag. He was worried about how dark the streets were and that I might not see a stop sign. Or that I might miss the turn to get back onto the highway. I argued this with him on the way to drop him off, finally telling him, "Okay dad." but I didn't go the way I told him. I went the way I came.
As I drove down Stetson, I noticed a truck that looked very similar to my dad's driving the same direction as me on the parallel street. At the intersections I could see it just a little behind me. Finally when I got to Domenigoni, that truck was stuck at the light. My light changed and I made my right turn, but I could see that the light to got south on that parallel road was green, so the truck should have a green light too. But it just sat there. I kept going, not another car around. Me driving away from that dark truck who was now making a U-turn.

This body is tired. Tired from heavy sobbing, from travel, from caring for others, from moving boxes.

And thirsty. Like never before I'd like to be good and drunk. There is no desire for the taste of a Jack and Coke, or rich, dark brew. I am thirst for the drunk. Somewhere, something in my brain is telling me I should be drunk right now- and the rational Gilda is fighting that yearning with the image of two human beings, flashing before my eyes, each time I blink. I will be finding a meeting.

The ugliest thing to do is to have to tell a person, it's that breaking the news that's the roughest. To whomever. And then, to answer the next question, "what happened?" my soul begins to rattle, my head becomes light, I must say something and what I say will come out and be the fact of the matter. It is not getting easier.

What I have felt, and was curious about, is the sense of closure I was told to expect. After my dad's ashes were spread. On the drive home, looking out the window, I thought about all the events that brought me to that moment- from the original phone call I got at work to call Tim. Spreading my dad's ashes made me feel like I did everything he asked me to do, despite the selfish fucks along the way. It was too important for me to allow myself to be steam rolled.

Tomorrow I go see the counselor again. I have an appointment. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. But my dad is dead and it doesn't feel any less painful. Time must pass, I get it. I don't know enough time will ever pass to feel at ease with the whole shitty thing.

Tia Corina: When Carlos found out I was going to Stanford he was so proud. He decided he was going to take up a collection, between him and my other two brothers to save enough money so that I would have a car while I was there. He also said if I had a car I would have to know how to maintain it. So he took me out to his car, I don't remember what he was driving but, I got under there with him and he showed me how to take out that bolt and drain the oil. He showed me how to change a tire and how to recharge the battery. That is the kind of brother he was. He was the oldest of us and he felt he had an obligation to take care of us. I think he felt that if he could teach us these types of things that he was helping us to take care of ourselves when he wasn't around. But the thing is, is that I always felt like he was around. Him and Rosy had an open door policy, I think many of you may be familiar with it, you took advantage of this generosity. If you ever needed a place to stay, you could go to Carlos'. You could stay as long as you'd like and other people might be coming and going too but, there was always room. This was my brother. He was always the big brother.

Guy Hatfield: I hired Carlos at Cushman about 25 years ago. He was someone who I thought was kind of crazy when I first met him but, I got to know him and understand his humor and I liked him. He was excellent at understanding people. And he was a reliable worker. He worked hard, until the job was done and he knew what he was doing. At the time, I used to drive this four wheeler, a dune buggy that was open on top. And I remember this one day, I had to work late, about an hour, hour and a half late. And I went out after work and my car was filled with empty bottles. Beer bottles. They were everywhere, I couldn't open a door or anything I didn't know what to do. Carlos, I found out later, he said after he calculated how many bottles he'd need, it took him three months to save up enough bottles to play this trick. And, then he had to arrange for my work load to get fixed so I'd be there late enough for him to do this. But that was Carlos. He was so well thought out and smart and funny. In his own way. He was a great, great person to have working with you. I knew each day I went into work I'd see him and that made work somewhere I wanted to be. Because I got to work with this guy.

Tia Theresa: I have known Carlos for a long time. We went to elementary school together. And we got along ok, but then I married his brother and he and I, well, he used to piss me off and I know I pissed him off but, we were family. So, I married his brother and, you know, he loved his kids. His kids were everything to him. Our families did a lot of stuff together for years. Then, when David died, I don't know. I don't know what happened. He came around for a while and then we just didn't see each other anymore. I don't know why he did this. He pisses me off even now. I love you kids and I know what you're going through.

Kieth Lamb: ....there must have been something about liking the kick of a gun that I brought up. Carlos said he had this rifle he just got, a 30-30 that I just had to try. So we went out and I have always worn glasses and this gun had a scope. I was laying there, trying to get the scope to align and be able to see with my glasses and I remember, after a while, I finally had it, I squeezed the trigger and I had this half moon, right here above my eye. I got up, handed it back to Carlos and even though I was acting like I was fine, once the blood started dripping down my nose, he starts laughing. That was Carlos, the humor of my friend Carlos. Yeah, he watched me the whole time I aimed that thing.

Steve Pape: Yeah, I worked with Carlos too, at Cushman. He was hired as a machinist. He taught me everything I know about sheet metal. He was a patient guy. And I remember that about him, that he knew what he was doing. If you had any question about what you were doing or didn't understand something, because that work, we worked with real exact measurements and, he knew. He knew how to do it all. I wouldn't be where I am today, in the business I have if it weren't for that guy. Yeah, he made going to work a joy. He was always there and he was just a funny guy to work with. He was kind of a teddy bear. You see him, you meet him and he's real mean looking. And then you get to know him and you get to see him with his kids and he was a good, good guy. I'll miss him.

Gene Benevides: Carlos was my uncle, my Uncle Carlos because he was married to my Aunt Rosy. And I love him. I didn't have a good male role model in my life, me or my sister and I remember him and my Aunt Rosy telling us if we ever needed a place to go we could stay with them. I don't know if my mom called my Aunt Rosy or what happened but, I remember my parents were fighting and my Uncle Carlos just showed up- at my house. He showed up and picked up me and my sister and we stayed with him and Aunt Rosy for like a month or more. And he taught me how to do all kinds of stuff. It was great. Here I was not ever having anyone really bother with me and here's this guy spending all this time with me, teaching me how to do all this cool stuff. He taught me how to take a gun all apart, clean it, then put it all together again. Who knows that kind of stuff? He knew how to do all this camping survival stuff and he taught me. I'll never forget him for that. He gave me all that, that I get to always know how to do. And I love him and I feel like he's at peace. Like he's in a better place and I'll get to see him again.

Tia Gilda: Today is the kind of day that always reminds me of my brother. Windy days are, some of you may not know this but Carlos loved to fly kites. I'm sure he took you kids. When we were small, he used to take us, and, for hours...he would even go by himself. So today, which is so out of the ordinary windy, is appropriate. He would love this day.

Tia Irene: Just over the summer when I was visiting from Las Vegas I saw Carlos at my mom's. He was doing okay but was kind of down. So, I told him I wanted to go out and do something fun so me and him and Terry, we all went to one of the casinos here and saw CCR. Carlos loved music, the Beatles were his favorite. And the Doors and CCR. So we went and we were drinking and he said he wanted to dance. And if you know my brother, he cannot dance. We went out to the dance floor and he starts jumping and hoping and doing this thing with his arm. I was so embarrassed! I asked him, "Carlos! What are you doing? You're embarrassing me" and he said, " I don't care, I want to dance with my sister!". And I won't ever forget that. I just sent him a card. His birthday is, well, it was yesterday and I sent him a letter telling him how much fun I had with him that night and that I wanted to see him again. I'm so grateful he was my brother. I remember when Carlos was living with us. I was still in school, but he was older. He got the 45 of Let It Be and he played it over and over. My dad would pound on the door to the boys room and yell at him to turn it off and to come out. Yeah, it was Let It Be. I love him so much and I know I'll see him again. We'll get to dance again.

Tio Richard's Father-In-Law: I remember Carlos. Carlos' brother Richard was married to my daughter Sylvia. He was a good guy. He had one of those minds that was mechanical, like with cars or with anything really. He understood that kind of stuff. Good with his hands. And us three, we used to raise some hell. The three of us, it was some good times. At Richard's funeral, Carlos did something, it was something I've never seen and I was glad I got to see it. I never seen nothing like it. At the the time of the burial, over in Fullertin, well, the way it's done, is that, the hole gets dug, then the casket is lowered and then later, after the family's gone and all, they come later and fill in the hole. Well Carlos wanted to help to bury Richard. And he did. And it was a whole thing to have it arranged, to have them bring all the dirt, cause, you know, it takes more dirt to fill it in. (Pause) He got a shovel from the guys there and he just, did it. He ah, he did everything. They even come in with this machine to pack in the dirt and, Carlos was there for all that too. It was something he felt he had to do for his brother. And it was the ugly part of the job but it had to be done and so he did it. He loved. He could love. He was a good friend, someone I like to say I got to know.