On Not Reflecting

Thus far, this blog contains three separate examples of personal writing observed objectively:

(1) Essay-writing to win a contest prize;
(2) Essay-writing to be published in a newspaper (where the author is employed);
(3) Essay-writing as a sample for a college's admissions office.

Three separate purposes. So, I guess it's my turn. Well then, here goes. (And I don't even know my purpose yet.)

Yesterday was my birthday. How old am I? The answer is of small consequence. Let's put it this way: if I baked a cake and stuck in the number of candles required to designate my age, then my place of residence might possibly be a pile of charred remains this morning.

Yesterday, I received no presents, no cards, no calls. Absolutely nothing from no one. But I did not mind. It was my birthday. I was left alone. Well, almost. But I did not mind terribly the e-mailed memorandum from my place of employment telling me that I had neglected to turn in a personal information form at the start of term. That was easy to take care of; in fact, they were very nice about it. They suspected it was all a mistake in paperwork due to a "transition" in the office team.

Yet there was nothing special about yesterday...except for the fact that I did regret one person was not there to share my birthday with me, even for just a hour or a half-hour -- That person is my daughter. My daughter, whom I have not seen in three years.

Actually, the last I had heard about her was in early 2006, when her mother phoned me up at school and told me that my "little girl" had been using her high-school graduation present, a new Izusu, to transport loads of methamphetamine for her boy friend. In fact, she was sampling some of the merchandise herself.

Her mother and I are separated; and customarily, we never communicate with one another. That's the way we prefer it. But on this rare occasion, her mother deemed the situation serious enough for her to call. And yet she knew that if my daughter discovered that I had been informed of what she had done, it would shame her no end. Thus, I did not do what I probably should have done; rushed right over to have a talk with my daughter -- even while she was still speeding. Instead, I did not do a thing, based on the recommendation of her mother that I should feign ignorance of the affair.

Yet, why did she call with this news of my daughter? Why did she feel it necessary for me to know -- and then to say, "but don't tell her I told you so?" What was this? A game? Yet at the time, I was too surprised and disappointed to even consider such possibilities. I was in no mood to reflect.

How convenient to be told that your daughter's screwing up her life; and then told afterwards that it's okay to ignore it, based upon even more convenient reasoning.

I have not seen my daughter in over 3 years. Maybe I don't deserve to see her. Maybe I deserve birthdays in which aloneness is both apprecitated and despaired.

The rough part is my inability to experience any guilt over my own complacency. Even now, I feel no anguish over my decision to accept her mother's recommendation. But I did. And I feel no remorse.

I only feel cold.

So happy birthday to me.