the secret truth

is that i really want my daughter to find and plow through all of my various notebooks, journals, sketch pads, and other detritus when i'm gone and realise:

that everything she ever thought about me all those years we were being crazy together
all the times she thought i was a monster
every time she imagined i was slightly off balance
whenever she believed i was touched by passion or madness

she was right.
i sincerely hope that during the course of our lives together she sees the truth of me, i certainly intend to share it with her. at the same time though, i also wish - - or maybe hope - - that when i am gone and all she has of a tangible me is maybe a lock of hair (or one of those really cool rings) and my books and books and books of scrawl, that the same truth of me surrounds her.

so i write things and draw things and scribble (though not as often as i want) in book after book after book. building the written legacy of my love.