Jonathan Williams, November 2, 1984

me and dad, 1977

dearest readers, andy pink: this is a retrospection, nothing about daily living, or my boy problems, but a dive backward, retrospective, to my past. the past memories are always retrospective and invented, there is no pure recollection or recall, no perfectly formed memory, like a dream can be, but an unsettled amalgamation of lines and circles and shapes and colors and sounds, an archive perhaps in its proper space — life — but not in its proper time — and so reconstructed and revived, for the present moment, in interlocution of private meditation, and, for this reason, this bit of recollection is a fiction, but one that no doubt sutures me from a hole that otherwise covers me with blackness. that's a long sentence!

i have two fictional memories of my father, jonathan williams, who died on november 2, 1984, these are idealized, in a way, though one of them is an uncomfortable retroactive reconstitution:

1. i recall seeing my dad's penis at the pubic toilets at fenway park, presumably during a red sox game. i am up-close to it, i assume that since i am young and small, this is my height, i'm as tall as a child, considerably shorter than him, standing by him, at the urinal (which at fenway in the early 80s was a basin of sorts, which just means that there are a bunch of dangling, urinating penises next to each other, with guys standing while they are pissing into this big, collective bowl, publically pissing with others (in a public bathroom), with other men and presumably boys. i am staring to the side, to gaze at my father's penis that is at my eyes. the penis is beautiful, hottt, and it looks like my adult penis, which is gorgeous. it's basically the same penis. the affect of the memory is calmness, curiosity, and incredulity. i must have seen his penis at other times in our short time together, but this is the image of his penis that i have, and it is lovely. i of course love his penis, but it looks especially gorgeous in this public space, a toilet, basin really, at fenway park, in the early 1980s in boston. this is my obviously gay memory of my father, along with themes of legacy, childhood, sexuality, the penis, and publicness. also, it is a bit of an orgy scene in the public toilets.

2. the second recollection i have of my father is sitting facing him, on his lap, he is wearing alternately a forest green or dark brown wool sweater, crewneck, probably from ll bean. i am throwing up. the juice flows rather easily, and i am not convulsing, or in any pain or discomfort, just flowing vomit on this lovely waspy wool sweater. unlike the fenway penis memory, this recollection is objectively presented (as opposed to the subjective view of my dad's penis from my own perspective), and the room is quite visible in the memory. this may have some gay content, as i am essentially ejaculating vomit (cum) onto my father, who is happily taking it, laying back and holding me and just taking it like a good bottom.

3. the final memory is disturbing, whereas the other two memories are mostly positive, this one involves discomfort, guilt, and shame. recollection: i am tussling with my father on his bed, he is laying down, upside, and we are sort of fighting, playing, carvorting. i am on his stomach or legs, and he is holding my wrists (etc.) while i am essentially wrestling with him, sort of sitting on his crotch, while his legs are bent, mostly relaxed and happy, propping me up between his bent legs, in his crotch. the affect is happiness and joy, really having a fabulous time with my good, fun father. i don't know if other kids play tussle (this was the word for the game, activity), but it had a sensual quality to it, our bodies were very close, and i must have been 5 or 6 (about a year before he died), when we tussled in this way. like the memory about the vomit, this is an objective shot, i'm not looking at him, rather the pov is by the dresser or perhaps the window in the bedroom, by my parents' bed. this is a bit queer: we are tussling, which is a substitute for the sexual intercourse that we can't have because of my small stature. the memory's plot continues: at some unidentified point of the play i decide to kick him hard in the crotch. hurting him, he doesn't scream, doesn't return the violation, i run down the hall in the house and to my room and bed. and the memory ends there, i don't see my father again in the memory. perhaps i murdered him with my vicious kick, he's gone.

that's all for now. rich has ruined me and i'm left to write, which is fine. i can't wait to go to disney world* with him, this shall be a show: punk boy with j.crew boy. i hope i have not bored you, or smothered you with the past, dear readers, and so i will depart my page now and play hide and seek with rich.

love andy p