the sun doesn't shine far from the p —

andy p, wellesley, new hampshire —

sun to son to run no fun —

i am staring at the eye of the sun. what happens every time i do this — gazing — is that i slowly go blind. i have an uncle who is blind and, as a child, i frequently tucked my arm behind his and accidentally walked him into a wall. we all thought this was amusing but only because it was accidental. it only happened twice (or so) but it’s a happy memory.

i have recently been thinking of my childhood. i always insisted that i had a happy childhood. although my father took his own life — someone may ask: by that, what do you mean? — but he was a legendarily lovely father before he died when i was 7 and most in love, most in horn, and most capable of producing an erection.

my memories of my father are only several, perhaps the most vibrant is seeing his penis as a small child at a professional baseball stadium around the age of five. there’s no real affect to the image — maybe curiosity, but it is light — but the image is clear. i think i have written about this image before on this script, we were in the public bathroom at a professional baseball stadium; it was a time when the urinals were lengthy basins with many penises in the same trough of sorts. one of the aporias of this memory is that i would probably not be tall enough to piss in a basin of adult men, i would be short to their tall, i wouldn’t be able to hold over and let go. i’m sure my memory is a meld of many — i’m not convinced, for example, that i ever actually went to a baseball game with my father before (or, i suppose, after) his death in 1984. but the emblazoned memory of my father is his penis. it obviously accounts for a fetish (of a fetish) — and if there is anything specific to this penis it is that mine would be like his, exactly —

it makes perfect sense: what else would i identify with in my father but his penis? — it is all, from a child’s young imagination, that would clearly separate him from my mother who — among other lacks and castrations — cannot unload tension in a narrow bathtub. it’s not so much that i’m looking for my father’s penis — i suppose i have found it, plenty — the issue is more: why would such a wonderful penis cash out my chips just when the wheel was really beginning to spin?

i stare directly at the eye of the sun and i wonder; eventually it will wander, i am so bored. but i’ve recently questioned this happy version of my childhood, beyond suicide, penis, and the pursuit of a foul ball down the right field line. my mother was a nurse (now retired) and she worked a 9-to-5. it was only much later that i would reckon properly with my mother’s alcoholism — i wasn’t old enough to notice and synthesize — but she really spent very little time with us, my sister and myself. she was home at 5:30 — single mother, exhausted — and she drank her white wine, pecked at a few bites of vegetables and starch, and then left for bed. my sister and i worked diligently on our public school homework — but in front of network television — and then we were eventually off to sleep, 9:30 or 10 — my mother, later around midnight, would be up again, reading. i have always maintained that i had a wonderful mother, but it was only this week that i recall that my mother never really spent any time with us, the children. the weekend — for her — was devoted to my step-father who only spent time at our house on the weekends. i suspect he was the first to introduce alcohol to our house in any real quantity, and it seems to me that it was mixed drinks, with ice, cranberry or pina colada, a regretted effect caused by a rusty blender.

i don’t drink — don’t much like the taste of alcohol, though perhaps 4x year i have a bloody mary prn — my sister doesn’t drink either. my mother still drinks and it ruined christmas this year. it’s unlikely she will quit, but i am now thinking of pulling away and pulling back, return to local burnt gardens and concrete public spaces, i’d like to learn how to fish but i’d settle for sunglasses and a hot view.

i have been unable to work on my book. i have decided that i will self-publish with my own press. the thought of writing a book prospectus for an academic press makes me want to take my own life — someone may ask: by that, what do you mean? — so i will publish by myself, i will invent my own publishing press and editor-in-chief, it will cost a thousand if i want it polished (or not) — and it will be up with an isbn on amazon and barnes by the end of the summer. unfortunately, none of you will have access to it, as i will remain anonymous, but perhaps when i am at the ends of my desperation i will stare directly at the penal lie of the father of the pineal eye of the son — and moan: “it will be a winner for those who are tired of losing.”

and then the boy will soothe me: “i will own you, not to worry, and i won’t pretend to ask permission.”

till tomorrow, i shall write about the boy, his name is patrick, a name i don’t like, i will write from the bar, he should be working the afternoon shift, tap a tap as i gaze, cross your fingers i don’t get cramps, i’ll bring the pepto — but will he agree to ice my coffee? —

andy pink