L.A.: Pater Familias
Always in mind, in body, in thought I am now and hereto forever returning to you, placing my offerings upon the home shrine. The home chosen by a soul listless from birth.
For the trouble of being born I was never gifted the father, and I filled that gap with strange amalgamations of the masculine personalities imprinted on my conscious experience. Some were fictitious, some long dead, some alive and nearby. Even my own father wedged a narrow splinter somewhere upon this framework.
Some through wisdom and integrity imparted truth that experience would later come to affirm. Some in the trappings of passions demonstrated through folly where the early boundaries would come to be drawn.
When I was eleven I adopted Mr. Spock as Dad; who, with stern and unswerving commitment to logic and quiet contemplation could forebear the incessant foibles of the surrounding humans, and even come to view them in the light of endearment.
Later I met L.A. who became, to me, that cruel father you cannot help but love,
Who denied me damn near everything, yet doled out just enough to curb the decline of the will to strive,
Who taught by way of tormented poverty every lesson in maturing I had forsaken to learn, and who reflected to my tired eyes every place where growth was needed.
L.A. was that dad who teased and taunted with dreams and visions of fame and avarice and sensuous opulence, but left them always just far enough out of reach.
L.A. taught with harsh reminders that there is no point of completion, that there is no resting on laurels.
Big-Daddy L.A. exacted interest on every payment and investment of Karmic action, and its wheel ever turns in my life, and I am indebted for so many pounds of flesh.
L.A. Dad harbors no sympathy for the thin-skinned. They learn to swim in concrete or embrace madness.