speciation the smallest vital crumb
on earth exerts a force commendable to memories extended well beyond the retrospectings
of the local child.
“Just think about those guys we saw on that show on Rome,” I said. “The Master of
the Bearded Unicorn; The Master of the Virgin Torso. Not all of us can be a Botticelli.”
Surely, there must one day be a shrine built to the memory of every mastered passion.
A place of record and collection, visited and mythic. Mine is to sit. I broaden, sitting.
For me, for the boy, I foresee a chair-sized chamber in his skull to which he pays
his visits, waits for a word, watches for a gesture, sees me,uncorrupt, anonymous, Master of the Seated Half-Dads. I believe that I may not be
bested in the seated greeting. I have the effect, upon a person’s entering our household,
of having stood, kissed a cheek and begged a person please to help himself. Should
I choose to, it is possible for me to cause a person to believe that I have suffered
polio, or multiple sclerosis, nervous, muscular diseases, past or in remission, whose
ravages have wrested from my life the spry, athletic days I sit in order to display
myself as having once been promised. I am the only person, to my knowledge, who is
able to consistently relieve himself of his dyspepsia through certain bowel-specific
postures. Naturally, I cannot satisfactorily describe my power, nor why I believe
in its effects. I have simply asked my wife to look at me, see me in my chair and
ask herself how any son could grow up crossing at my footrest and forget me?
Until today, on occasion, my wife has temporarily forgone the boy, admitting she is
not so sure she’d want to have me as a memory either, if she had not known the Me
she knew in courtship. She insists I was a different man then, wants to know if I
remember our inaugurating days of marriage, the brief, halcyon months of carnal love
and culinary amplitude, before the news broke that the boy would come. In those days,
she explains, I bought her silken underpants. I lapped mousses from her cleavage.
Apparently, I said I liked the flavor of her cunny-stew. I would growl—it seems to
me, implausibly—coming up from there, smeary-lipped, and kiss her. I was truly, truly
frightening, and bigger, it had seemed to her, hurtful, in a handsome way, when I
forgot myself. She recalls our favorite game was Horsey. I neighed. It seems to me
no likelier than growling, but she claims she spurred me on and slapped my flanks,
unmercifully, at my urging. She loved, loved, loved to ride me. I was the stallion
of her childhood dreams come true. Shesometimes called me Silver. Other times she called me Trigger, and on the nights I
reared and bucked the rankest I became, to her, Black Beauty. It wasn’t any pervert,
she insists, nothing bad, or even too unique, in our part of the country, where so
many of us grew up in the neighborhood of horses, and those of us who didn’t grow
up with a horse were made to grow up wanting one, or just, it seems, with wanting.
“Oh, it was a romp,” she said. “My God, I swear that I could feel it when you—you
know—I’m not kidding. I even knew which times you gave me more than others. I swear
I knew which time it was you finally knocked me up.”
My wife said it was then, with the advent of the boy, that I began exploring Oriental
diets. I went easy on the cream. I distrusted cuts of meat much larger than my thumb.
I suddenly liked rice, discovered strength through fasting. In the eyes of my wife,
I was in the process of becoming, increasingly, less Me. To support herself, my wife
hauled out the snapshots of our happiest occasions as a family, showing me consistently
appearing not the way I ought to. I hear my wife inform me that my duty to the boy,
in part, is to provide for him a model. If I had stood a little nearer to him, smiling,
preferably, “expressing interest,” said my
on earth exerts a force commendable to memories extended well beyond the retrospectings
of the local child.
“Just think about those guys we saw on that show on Rome,” I said. “The Master of
the Bearded Unicorn; The Master of the Virgin Torso. Not all of us can be a Botticelli.”
Surely, there must one day be a shrine built to the memory of every mastered passion.
A place of record and collection, visited and mythic. Mine is to sit. I broaden, sitting.
For me, for the boy, I foresee a chair-sized chamber in his skull to which he pays
his visits, waits for a word, watches for a gesture, sees me,uncorrupt, anonymous, Master of the Seated Half-Dads. I believe that I may not be
bested in the seated greeting. I have the effect, upon a person’s entering our household,
of having stood, kissed a cheek and begged a person please to help himself. Should
I choose to, it is possible for me to cause a person to believe that I have suffered
polio, or multiple sclerosis, nervous, muscular diseases, past or in remission, whose
ravages have wrested from my life the spry, athletic days I sit in order to display
myself as having once been promised. I am the only person, to my knowledge, who is
able to consistently relieve himself of his dyspepsia through certain bowel-specific
postures. Naturally, I cannot satisfactorily describe my power, nor why I believe
in its effects. I have simply asked my wife to look at me, see me in my chair and
ask herself how any son could grow up crossing at my footrest and forget me?
Until today, on occasion, my wife has temporarily forgone the boy, admitting she is
not so sure she’d want to have me as a memory either, if she had not known the Me
she knew in courtship. She insists I was a different man then, wants to know if I
remember our inaugurating days of marriage, the brief, halcyon months of carnal love
and culinary amplitude, before the news broke that the boy would come. In those days,
she explains, I bought her silken underpants. I lapped mousses from her cleavage.
Apparently, I said I liked the flavor of her cunny-stew. I would growl—it seems to
me, implausibly—coming up from there, smeary-lipped, and kiss her. I was truly, truly
frightening, and bigger, it had seemed to her, hurtful, in a handsome way, when I
forgot myself. She recalls our favorite game was Horsey. I neighed. It seems to me
no likelier than growling, but she claims she spurred me on and slapped my flanks,
unmercifully, at my urging. She loved, loved, loved to ride me. I was the stallion
of her childhood dreams come true. Shesometimes called me Silver. Other times she called me Trigger, and on the nights I
reared and bucked the rankest I became, to her, Black Beauty. It wasn’t any pervert,
she insists, nothing bad, or even too unique, in our part of the country, where so
many of us grew up in the neighborhood of horses, and those of us who didn’t grow
up with a horse were made to grow up wanting one, or just, it seems, with wanting.
“Oh, it was a romp,” she said. “My God, I swear that I could feel it when you—you
know—I’m not kidding. I even knew which times you gave me more than others. I swear
I knew which time it was you finally knocked me up.”
My wife said it was then, with the advent of the boy, that I began exploring Oriental
diets. I went easy on the cream. I distrusted cuts of meat much larger than my thumb.
I suddenly liked rice, discovered strength through fasting. In the eyes of my wife,
I was in the process of becoming, increasingly, less Me. To support herself, my wife
hauled out the snapshots of our happiest occasions as a family, showing me consistently
appearing not the way I ought to. I hear my wife inform me that my duty to the boy,
in part, is to provide for him a model. If I had stood a little nearer to him, smiling,
preferably, “expressing interest,” said my
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