A fabulous picture on the outside front cover is Chris, my son. Long dark red hair, skinny, and a half smile. I had three visions of his life after he died. The visions were implanted in my memory, but I hadn’t acted on them. The fourth vision appeared as Chris communicated with me. He wrote “I couldn‘t see exactly what he had written. It was an almost-puzzle. Suddenly I could flashes of his words. The words flowed to my mind. I couldn’t wait to write down the words, phrases, and sentences in the computer.” I wrote the “real” story. Is it fact or fiction? Interwoven always? I have blurred the meaning. I like that blur. It tells me something about the intersection of fact/fiction where it is always blurred.
Back to the story. Chris failed all his 10th grade classes, smoked a bong every day, and got in trouble with the police. Eventually, on January 1, 1979, Barbara kicked him out of the house. I arrived in Flemington where Chris stood outside with one suitcase. When I got to Rumson, Chris stomped in furious at all of us. Stood there, head down, always sullen. A resounding beginning for me and Jo.
After a while, Chris quietly cleaned up his act. Stubbornly. On his own. He graduated from high school with B-. I was astounded. At the University of Montana, he majored in music and, then, art . Discovered sculpture. In mid-junior year, he died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. February 13, 1983. I remember that vividly.
Chris knew all along that he was fine. Quietly he blossomed inside. He knew that a degree from the University of Montana was out of reach. He didn’t care. Thirty years later, Chris reached out to transfer “the power” to me. I wrote this “virtual memoir” for the two of us. Moving toward poetic, this is a spiritual and moving book. Furiousness, sadness and joyfulness are joined together. For me and Chris. You’ll enjoy reading it. You can find my book here.