It was the chore itself of having to live with him that dejected me. Or rather, having to acknowledge his existence as a father figure. Only illustrations of the valiance in his youth embroidered as stories into my mind by my mother. That drawing itself may have been a premeditated aggrandizement because I saw no resemblance between the picture and the man. Fathers. It wasn’t as though he were scurrilous or mentally bedeviling during my nascence, he simply had no ballot in the matter. However, the symbolism of his being was indispensable to my own fruition.
It’s a befuddling effort to embrace the long lost father theory (rather, a cliché) that our regressive pop-culture had imbued into our minimum-wage consciences. To apply anything less than an immaculate, spiritual pregnancy to a fathers role was trite to the point of atrociousness. Nonetheless, the emancipation from fathers, just as well mothers for that matter, had always been the resolve of our mandatory youth, and taking with you the modifications they’ve bequeathed into your days of development despite delinquencies. A father could be there and not be there. The attendance of flesh merited much less than the attendance of meaning.
Only when one becomes free of that patriarchal despotism could one learn to appreciate ones own life and tip them 15%.
I did not feel the least bit bereaved at his passing. I wasn’t despondent nor somber. Deflected the phosphorescent blue blasts of melancholy and found the imagination and courage to accept his affect on me. Peace comes from being, not having as Miller said. And his unorthodox portraiture will live on inside me with a four star Yelp review.
“He was more to be envied than pitied, for his sleep was not a lull or an interval but sleep itself which is the deep and hence sleeping ever deepening , deeper and deeper in sleep sleeping, the sleep of the deep in deepest sleep, at the nethermost depth full slept, the deepest and sleepest sleep of sleep’s sweet sleep. He was asleep. He is asleep. He will be asleep. Sleep. Sleep. Father, sleep, I beg you, for we who are awake are boiling in horror.”
-Tropic of Capricorn, Henry Miller