Mathias B. Freese

In a few hours I will go to Tucson airport  and pick up my son and his girlfriend, Anna. I have my fatherly quirks and expectations. Jordan lives in Chicago which he is beginning to dislike with a fervor. He spent a few years in Portland but the constant rain and dismal skies began to corrode his morale. He is my favorite wandering Jew, having been to Turkey, Egypt, Wyoming, Rome, Prague and Vienna. I’m sure I left a few out. Jordan is 32 and is an artist with an artist’s annoyance at the world. Presently he is working on a “comic” book that reveals his sharp imagery and neurotically tense lines. When he comes to Tucson we will go to Wheatmark which is my press for him to get informed about publishing his first book.

Jordan has his ways and he assuredly knows mine. He lost his mother 9 years ago at the age of 23. I lost mine at 20. Gratefully he had completed college, but my mother’s death interrupted my education psychologically and emotionally. I had real problems with my father who essential walked away from my sister and I. It is old business. I was there for Jordan and he was there for me. The relationship had to be renegotiated and it is still in procees, which is all to the good. In a good sense, mind you, my son really doesn’t know who I am. I don’t now who he is. We have approximations of one another. In fact I believe that is all we carry around with us, images of one anbother not based on any reality, just leatrned guesses. I don’t comprehend myself. The significant other is always a mystery.