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P. 1
Begin Again

Begin Again

Ratings: (0)|Views: 34 |Likes:
Published by Robin Postell

After my father committed suicide in March 2008, I was agog trying to understand myself, his death, my reaction - if I was reacting, if I was feeling anything at all. We had been feuding unmercifully for months and I had, along with my best friend who was dear to him and had been since we were third graders, made the decision to not cater, or "enable," him any longer. A prolific and lauded writer/investigative journalist/author/state editor, my father was first a dynamic, intensely complicated, staggeringly entertaining with charm both full of ruse and lacking in guile. Since he had passed his writing and photography, his love of the word and image, to me, when he died I had thousands of computer documents on his hard drive and countless back-up disks, along with hundreds of personal letters to me from childhood to 40 when he vanished into thin air that chilly morning 4 years ago. Add to that scores of correspondence/emails to others, "personal inventories," as he called them (his journal), which I'm still finding, and at least a couple hundred audio cassettes with interviews done with story sources, and monologues/notes-to-self on any number of topics, and his lifelong collection of favorite books (many of them tabbed and written in), and I've got a canon of material to continue discovering - and comprehending.

This unedited piece was one of many I chose to post on here during a particularly experimental period of my grief, I suppose; wanting to know how others responded to his character, at once personal and oddly remote.

Who was this man?

This was about the young woman (25 to his 42) who he began having an affair with while at the peak of his career front-paging daily at The Albany Herald. My mother had been his high school sweetheart and after 18 years the sweet had obviously left his heart in the middle-of his mid-life crises.

Due to a cerebral hemmorhage in the late 90s, he was unable to type with lightining speed as I recall since childhood, listening to him hammering away on his row of black iron manual Royal typewriters down in his home office. His right hand and arm had become stricken with numbness, chronic pain, and debilitation of his motor skills - making writing for him in these latter years from which the odd selection of documents I chose to post here a difficult and frustrating exercise for him.

However, I chose to leave the unedited documents as they were, to fully reflect not only who he was and what he was sharing, but what he had to endure as a powerful and professionally dominating man in his prime to a wheelchair bound "gimp" as he'd call himself with bittersweet cynicism...

Thank those of you who have read these few items. Just the other day I discovered a stack of blank disks, almost ready to toss them, but decided instead to check to make sure there weren't some amazing playlists I'd someday regret - and on that one disk were documents from 2003-2004, ones which he had backed-up but not labeled.

On it I found a plethora of even more stunning revelations into the mind of a father who I always knew loved me more than he did himself or anyone else, yet had also been my worst foe and I his after I graduated from high school and he met this woman he speaks of so liberally (who also wound up breaking up his second marriage, I might add).

To the earnest woeful souls within us all, Charles Postell was as much of a true superstar (or anti-star) and a lover of life as anyone who lives or ever has.

Sharing his weaknesses is an attempt to empower his memory over the long haul, for as I accumulate more time and wisdom I see clearer the totality of his persona and psyche.

Yet I'm not closer than I ever was to grasping what dark seed within him had harvested such an incredibly tragic undoing and demise.

Therein lies the r

After my father committed suicide in March 2008, I was agog trying to understand myself, his death, my reaction - if I was reacting, if I was feeling anything at all. We had been feuding unmercifully for months and I had, along with my best friend who was dear to him and had been since we were third graders, made the decision to not cater, or "enable," him any longer. A prolific and lauded writer/investigative journalist/author/state editor, my father was first a dynamic, intensely complicated, staggeringly entertaining with charm both full of ruse and lacking in guile. Since he had passed his writing and photography, his love of the word and image, to me, when he died I had thousands of computer documents on his hard drive and countless back-up disks, along with hundreds of personal letters to me from childhood to 40 when he vanished into thin air that chilly morning 4 years ago. Add to that scores of correspondence/emails to others, "personal inventories," as he called them (his journal), which I'm still finding, and at least a couple hundred audio cassettes with interviews done with story sources, and monologues/notes-to-self on any number of topics, and his lifelong collection of favorite books (many of them tabbed and written in), and I've got a canon of material to continue discovering - and comprehending.

This unedited piece was one of many I chose to post on here during a particularly experimental period of my grief, I suppose; wanting to know how others responded to his character, at once personal and oddly remote.

Who was this man?

This was about the young woman (25 to his 42) who he began having an affair with while at the peak of his career front-paging daily at The Albany Herald. My mother had been his high school sweetheart and after 18 years the sweet had obviously left his heart in the middle-of his mid-life crises.

Due to a cerebral hemmorhage in the late 90s, he was unable to type with lightining speed as I recall since childhood, listening to him hammering away on his row of black iron manual Royal typewriters down in his home office. His right hand and arm had become stricken with numbness, chronic pain, and debilitation of his motor skills - making writing for him in these latter years from which the odd selection of documents I chose to post here a difficult and frustrating exercise for him.

However, I chose to leave the unedited documents as they were, to fully reflect not only who he was and what he was sharing, but what he had to endure as a powerful and professionally dominating man in his prime to a wheelchair bound "gimp" as he'd call himself with bittersweet cynicism...

Thank those of you who have read these few items. Just the other day I discovered a stack of blank disks, almost ready to toss them, but decided instead to check to make sure there weren't some amazing playlists I'd someday regret - and on that one disk were documents from 2003-2004, ones which he had backed-up but not labeled.

On it I found a plethora of even more stunning revelations into the mind of a father who I always knew loved me more than he did himself or anyone else, yet had also been my worst foe and I his after I graduated from high school and he met this woman he speaks of so liberally (who also wound up breaking up his second marriage, I might add).

To the earnest woeful souls within us all, Charles Postell was as much of a true superstar (or anti-star) and a lover of life as anyone who lives or ever has.

Sharing his weaknesses is an attempt to empower his memory over the long haul, for as I accumulate more time and wisdom I see clearer the totality of his persona and psyche.

Yet I'm not closer than I ever was to grasping what dark seed within him had harvested such an incredibly tragic undoing and demise.

Therein lies the r

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Published by: Robin Postell on May 28, 2011
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09/17/2013

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I believe my lies. Truth bores me. This article, however, is true, and thesubject does not bore me.I fell in love with this beautiful road-dog from Venice Beach, Californiawith sirens in her brain, that pretty blonde hair.. She is one little old fucked-up 22-year-old English major with the prettiest feet on earth. Feet. That’s Right. I am jealous of anyone who is graced with hanging out with this beautiful mercurialwhore.Yet I realize she never had, or ever will have, a chance in this bugaboo life.Boo-ho, etc. Her step-father began going down on her when she was 9 years oldand 13-years ago, and her mother turns up lesbian. I don’t know just how thatworks, but she swears she’s seen them fucking and sucking with her own twoeyes.“No finance, no romance.” is her warhoop. If I hear her say that one moretime, well, ….She can’t, or will not, fuck without payment of some sort.Surrender is here. That’s just part of whoredom, I reckon.. I’m trying tounderstand, but it’s rough. I just got back from an alcohol and drug treatmentretreat. I told you I’m in love something fierce. At 44-years old, I’m ready to regroup andsober up and maybe have another family. Been thinking about it.Anyway, the drug retreat for alcoholics and drug addicts kept me worried.All I think about is getting back home and hitting the sheets. The “drunk” camefrom Louisiana, a Cajun with wide white suspenders. I’m told I needed to listen tothis recovered drunk talk all day about what it was like, what happened and whatit’s like now. When you get to be truly sober and bright-eyed, you go on “circuit”,which means the group picks up expenses to anywhere in the nation. Now, this iswhat I want: to be on the circuit. These are the people I want to be like? That’swhat I’m shooting for, The only drawback issobriety. I met Tracie (she’s a Barbie baby) 18 months ago and I’m coming up on a year’s sobriety next month.
 
I’ve been married too many times. I’m tired of “serial dating,” thenmarriage and the monotony of living with a fat wife in the aluminum village, veryfamiliar. I’ve been there, done that, etc. In my younger days I quickly became atrailer park tomcat. Husband out ducking, I’m there fucking. Adulterouscopulation cost me plenty. At the age of 40, even the lowest road dog turned meaway or insisted on “socking”, and more, yes, more health threats andhumiliations. I picked my male friends by how his wife looked. Stalking becameas dangerous as snorkeling for sharks. That third wife, I think she was, blew outthe floor-to ceiling glass windows, and this backdoor Romeo stopped drinking andother drugs and started getting better.I’m coming around. This Atlanta doctor. Bob Jefferson, 65, married a 29-year old country bumpkin from the wilds of southern Georgia. Her dad is ahandyman and garbage digger. She, along with other golddiggers, has been on“Opra” their older husbands’ demand to stay vibrant and sexy, and cosmeticsurgery, etc. Bored, or something, who knows?Doc began playing courtyard psychiatry with me, suggesting a differentdrug from my alcohol, pot and cocaine. Wrong drug, all the time. Instead of liftingme, it beat the living hell out of me, shrunk my dick until it was no more than atoy soldier sticking out less than an inch, and trying to fuck was like trying to putan oyster into a parking meter.I almost got drunk.I can’t figure the gentrification of young women like Traci.. She lost staturewhen she started hanging with me after her husband was found dead in the LimeSink. Here she was, a scant 22 and already a widow, cream of the crop whocontinues to live in the grand home she was born, with its vast wrap-around porches and large columns. Now, in less than a year, the house needs painting, etc.The whole town said a better class of people is sorely needed in that grand house.Let me back up a bit and tell you about the bottomless lime sink. It is saidthe Lime Sink, which is about half the size of a football field, that the U.S.

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