benefits of frequent flier mileage
Jan. 24th, 2025 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
just_cydDoes the word "pal" have a different meaning based on age of the user? Where they were born & raised? Man to woman? He's called me that a couple times now. I'm trying so hard to NOT read more into it, reminding myself he's a Girl Dad, and I'm probably just another young woman for him to fret over, offering me a place to crash when roads are bad, lest he worry for my safety. But I'm not young - there can't be more than 10 years between us. Sure he played CBGB before i could drive, but who says he was old enough to drive either?
He talks of 2016, when his life and marriage fell apart amidst the shared sorrow of losing Bowie (and Rickman, and many more), and he had to keep it together for his daughter, peeling back the first of many layers. I always picture her as a young child. 2016 would make her a teen - 15 or 16, if my math is right. It's one thing to be strong for a toddler, a single-digits aged kid who will believe what you tell them, the Why It Must Be This Way, and the small lies that ease the Big Truth. It's another entirely to stare down an almost-adult and lead with denial because the mere prospect of existing in the truth is just too painful to bear. I don't know the circumstances. He is not one to open up even about easy things. Slowly, though, the layers are loosening. Some photos show him with a left-hand-third-finger adornment. It wasn't that long ago, and yet it was a lifetime ago.
Do i continue to throw myself and my money at him to buy his favor? Will it convince him to let me tell his story? Am i ready for all that entails, or is this just another manic fever dream that will break in the harsh light of my Ohio life? In NC, anything seems possible. Back here, "home," I'm less certain.
Eventually, it came: the request for my phone number, the follow up to a promise in an earlier message. a file sent, but not usable. iPhone to Android incompatibility, we decided, and I try an app to beat the file into compliance. No dice. Still eager to send me something, but insisting it's no big deal, "may email it sometime" comes across the chat and my inbox pings before i can digest the words. another layer revealed, in mp3 format.
I'm not used to being the one whose approval is sought. The follow-up. Follow-through? lobbing compliments like automatic fire, hoping quantity will blind him to the quality, deeply lacking, his Other of (Un)certain Significance able to out-articulate me in her sleep, razor-sharp wit cutting me down to size.
A firehose full of my sincerest thanks follows as well. For sharing. For trusting. For taking me at my word when I say I won't share with anyone until he gives the OK. The power I hold, but will not wield. I am on unfamiliar ground and sinking fast.
Always wanting to do right, the suggestion of NDAs pop up, but then dies on my tongue (fingertips?), worried I'm taking it all wrong. But if he does concede to me as biographer, NDAs will be inevitable. good thing I know an attorney in NC.
Today, an unanticipated message on a different platform: the upcoming show announcement as posted by the venue. no note, just his sharp visage in high contrast and a link to the post. I can't stop smiling at the thoughtfulness. my giddy reply confirms ticket bought and hotel booked, along with the unasked for details of where I'll be the night before. Rambling. A thousand words, easy, for the one picture. I'm collecting concerts like Pokemon now.
I've got the basic Wikipedia format typed out, and am filling in what little bits I can - band names, albums - and realize how little I truly know. Google won't tell me what I truly desire. Notes from chats with him and others, plus little gems and photos from Facebook clutter the document. I have until Valentine's Day to mold this into something that will make him proud, to encourage the full revelation of what's inside.
He talks of 2016, when his life and marriage fell apart amidst the shared sorrow of losing Bowie (and Rickman, and many more), and he had to keep it together for his daughter, peeling back the first of many layers. I always picture her as a young child. 2016 would make her a teen - 15 or 16, if my math is right. It's one thing to be strong for a toddler, a single-digits aged kid who will believe what you tell them, the Why It Must Be This Way, and the small lies that ease the Big Truth. It's another entirely to stare down an almost-adult and lead with denial because the mere prospect of existing in the truth is just too painful to bear. I don't know the circumstances. He is not one to open up even about easy things. Slowly, though, the layers are loosening. Some photos show him with a left-hand-third-finger adornment. It wasn't that long ago, and yet it was a lifetime ago.
Do i continue to throw myself and my money at him to buy his favor? Will it convince him to let me tell his story? Am i ready for all that entails, or is this just another manic fever dream that will break in the harsh light of my Ohio life? In NC, anything seems possible. Back here, "home," I'm less certain.
Eventually, it came: the request for my phone number, the follow up to a promise in an earlier message. a file sent, but not usable. iPhone to Android incompatibility, we decided, and I try an app to beat the file into compliance. No dice. Still eager to send me something, but insisting it's no big deal, "may email it sometime" comes across the chat and my inbox pings before i can digest the words. another layer revealed, in mp3 format.
I'm not used to being the one whose approval is sought. The follow-up. Follow-through? lobbing compliments like automatic fire, hoping quantity will blind him to the quality, deeply lacking, his Other of (Un)certain Significance able to out-articulate me in her sleep, razor-sharp wit cutting me down to size.
A firehose full of my sincerest thanks follows as well. For sharing. For trusting. For taking me at my word when I say I won't share with anyone until he gives the OK. The power I hold, but will not wield. I am on unfamiliar ground and sinking fast.
Always wanting to do right, the suggestion of NDAs pop up, but then dies on my tongue (fingertips?), worried I'm taking it all wrong. But if he does concede to me as biographer, NDAs will be inevitable. good thing I know an attorney in NC.
Today, an unanticipated message on a different platform: the upcoming show announcement as posted by the venue. no note, just his sharp visage in high contrast and a link to the post. I can't stop smiling at the thoughtfulness. my giddy reply confirms ticket bought and hotel booked, along with the unasked for details of where I'll be the night before. Rambling. A thousand words, easy, for the one picture. I'm collecting concerts like Pokemon now.
I've got the basic Wikipedia format typed out, and am filling in what little bits I can - band names, albums - and realize how little I truly know. Google won't tell me what I truly desire. Notes from chats with him and others, plus little gems and photos from Facebook clutter the document. I have until Valentine's Day to mold this into something that will make him proud, to encourage the full revelation of what's inside.
