doting

i have to run down to the PCRU, the clinic in which i love lazing away my days, but i wanted to share a bit of mark doty's memoir firebird to start off your day.

on what he called his father when he was growing up:

"with my father it's simpler: we simply lack connection. he's a force on the horizon, but a distant one, like the sort of storm you see in the midwest, visible across uncountable acres of cornfields. maybe it will sweep in to give you trouble but probably not, not often. in my mind he is concerned with a particular universe of things that have to do with his work: shiny metal lunch box, domed like a vaulted chapel. drafting tools set precisely in leather cases, three-sided rulers for measuring what? shiny white hard hat. little red castle, two-towered, on a decal on the windshield of his government truck, emblem of the army engineers. mornings he eats shredded wheat soaked in milk from a tall drinking glass from a trip, sometimes he brings me something, some breakable little toy, reward for his absence. i manipulate him with expectation, make it clear that i will be so pleased to receive something (a "play-pretty," our term for toy, something i used to say as a baby) as a consolation, but i already know i don't need consoling. aftershave, boxer shorts, milk of magnesia in blue bottles: mostly i don't need to call him anything."