My father always used to say, "Never trust a man with a fish for a belt." This, along with many other things he'd say, never really made any sense to me. Until I was twelve, that is; that's when they came to take him away, the men in white coats with their belts of leather and steel, my father screaming about the "pike conspiracy".

We didn't see dad for a while. I understand why, now, but when you're a kid you see what's there, not what's supposed to be there. And you notice what's not there, and what should be, and I guess that might explain my problems with life. Not necessarily my dad being gone, or even ripped from us, or even his being "a bit of a nutter", as a friend of mine put it when I told her about him. More, I think, a combination of it all.

Then again, maybe it began long before that. Maybe it never really began, just always was. I don't know. If I knew, I could fix it, and I wouldn't make these horrendous mistakes. Or maybe I would, I'd just be blind to them. I keep trying to think what I should do about this, about that, and what my father would say. Sound advice? Probably not. No, he'd likely reflect on the lessons and ideals he'd developed in his lifetime, bizarre and varied as they were. Role model he was not.

I've never really figured out whether he was a wacko or a genius. I probably never will. But his words will always stay with me: "never trust a man with a fish for a belt." In retrospect, I guess it makes sense.

Dad always used a rabbit.

Whenever distraught, I notice things more. For example, the wipers on the bus from Edinburgh airport to Waverly station, moving in their limber yet methodical fashion. They danced like marionettes across the windshield, devoid of any emotion, merely doing their job and nothing more. No spirit. No mind. No heart.

I'm not sure what makes me think of this now, as I sit by the ocean, eight thousand miles away, writing a letter to you. Well, trying to, but my thoughts become a jumbled mess and I end up thinking things like 'Gee, what a neat sunset' and 'Oh look, a crab is crawling towards my crotch'. And the wipers on that beat up old bus. And how, at that moment, at that time, that was all that mattered. All I could see. All I could understand.

The breeze is blowing, soft, soothing, like it did that day, like it used to on those August days in the north valley. I remember when I was little, Dad and I used to play catch in the cull-du-sac outside our home. What glorious summer afternoons those were, my father and I throwing the old "head" around; that's what we used to call the ball, the "head". A reasonable sobriquet, I feel, since we would always use a severed fish head for a ball. (Dad had a thing about fish. And badgers. And monkeys. In retrospect, it's a wonder I was at all surprised by his being committed.)

But all those summer days paid off, and I eventually found I was a natural at the sport; of course, my coach was a bit concerned on the first day of practice, when I showed up with my hand wrapped in a hollowed out salmon. Still, he saw my potential, and I made my way through high school playing ball, and even got a scholarship to college to do the same. These were fun, trouble free times; I never understood what the big deal was about sports, though. I got to go to college for free for doing something I enjoyed, and I never really understood why. This concept of ignorance has become a mantra for me lately, an empty, simple "why".

Last night I stood in the bathroom mirror, flossing. Reflecting on the ritualistic style in which we partake in this methodical process. Right to left, top. Left to right, bottom. Jesus, I thought. I am becoming more and more of an automaton.

Then I saw it, staring right back in the mirror. The bright shine of the silvery material used to fill my teeth. And I thought: how much we actually, physically, are machines. And I began to wonder about all medical procedures, all the surgeries and repairs-pins in broken bones, plates in heads, removing skin to replace skin-and realized that humans are merely machines. Nothing more.

Mechanical procedures. Poetry in motion. Repetition.

I looked further down. I saw the rabbit, its lifeless face smiling up at me, it's furry ears tickling my belly. Dad never did get around to telling me how to tie them off. But he knew, damn him, and that secret he took with him to the grave.

I became an excellent catcher. I could catch any pitch, no matter how wild or fast. It's not hard, really, when you've trained with fish heads. The aerodynamics of them alone are baffling, and I find it amazing that I never got bored with the predictability of the baseball. But seasons change, and broken arms can take you out for far too long. Plus, love (or the illusion thereof) and an interest in subjects other than sport or sex led me into a field of study. Then the loss of love led me into a life of travel, and strangeness, but wonder, as it led me to you. But that's another story, and I've probably already told you that one.

So, yeah. The last time I visited dad. The very last time, when they found him; well, I guess we found him, swaying back and forth, the rabbit ears tied into a fluffy knot beneath his chin. Or so they tell me. I walked in the room and my sight went blank. Just nothing. Dead black and the howl of the breeze through the open window. And that fragile feeling, the kind that crawls into your joints and bones. That feeling of weakness, like you could never be truly fulfilled until every damn bone was broken, that it would simply feel better to break them and release the pain, the ache.

But it passes. They all pass, those moments, and we remember what we want to remember. I remember the man who taught me the meanings of respect, honor, caution, and psychosis. And, most important of all, the dangers of taking yourself too seriously.

The ocean is beautiful today, Nina. I wish you could see it. I know the English coast is a cold, grey place. If only you could see the Pacific; it's so beautiful. I never really noticed before, but it truly is. I don't know if any of this will make sense to you; it doesn't really to me. But the breeze, the sunshine, the blue of the ocean. It makes me forget a little. And that's not all bad.

Perhaps there's a lesson in there, somewhere. But I doubt I'll ever see it.