died of meningitis in a shack; no one can ever understand it â itâs all so perplexing. I mean, I was still so young. I was a child and he did not communicate with me . . . formally. But we were close. And I knew what he was doing. It was a Manichean struggle; it was the flesh and the spirit. He had decided he couldnât be a father to us if he couldnât be who he wanted to be (i.e., a man who loved men). And if he couldnât achieve self-respect being who he was, then it was best for him to disappear from our world.
I have proof of his struggle in the form a letter he sent my mother. I found it in the garbage. It is still crumpled, but I had it framed. It says, in quite lovely, elegant handwriting: âI havenât drunk anything for some time now and donât intend to as long as I keep away from it.â That he would seek pity from my mother â a woman incapable of
any
human emotion, especially pity â says something about his judgement. So does the pathetic idea that by âkeeping away from itâ he could cure himself. And Iâm sure this wasnât just about booze. It was about his body, about the body in general, about its tyranny.
I visited him, and saw where he lived, and looked into his eyes. My mother didnât want me to do any of this. But I made Virginia take me. I insisted. I could see there was a Buddhist sort of struggle going on â a veiled calm behind his eyes, and the veil was tears. Iâm not extolling him because he wasnât one of the young men in a front row reaching out to me. Iâm not praising him for suffering. But his devotion to me (and I know he was devoted to me even though he lived far away at the end) was a devotion that was purely his own, purely independent, purely original. He loved me despite my mother, despite who he was and despite a world telling him he couldnât love me and still remain himself. His adoration was not part and parcel of trying to be accepted by a group; in fact, it was quite the opposite. When I sang: âZing went the strings . . .â on the radio the night he died, I was singing to one man only: to him.
I didnât mean to get onto this âfather and the radio showâ business, even though I warned you about it earlier. I thought you might interpret it the wrong way, and you may still. But thatâs one of the things I have been thinking about lately. Of course, I realize that I am an addict, and I donât have any delusions about
not
being one â or of graduating from that condition. But I am thinking about the way I divide things so carefully now, in such a controlling way: a time for this and a time for that. I dare not speak or write about certain things, or do them, because it will connect me with you-know-what. And of course I cannot, must not, go back
there
.
I think instead there is a point when a person canât live with, and doesnât need, boundaries. Dangerous talk, you will say. I am not abandoning the self-evident truth that I am an addict. For in a world in which there are so few truths, strangely, addiction is empirical. Even that antique deconstructionist Derrida acknowledged empirical truths, of opening a door or touching a table or being struck in the face and feeling the sting. Well, the tangible reality here is my addiction. But what I am frustrated with is the relentless order of my life â which I have imposed upon myself to protect me from ever straying. The loss of those minute satisfactions â I hardly ever eat old-fashioned unpackaged food, hardly ever have a sip of coffee, and I feel so guilty, so very guilty, for the occasional, very occasional, cigarette. Perhaps these activities might not, in the future, be spaced out so religiously (or should I say Jesuitically?). Is that possible? Because this tedious discipline has become my way of life. And I really donât think I have anything to fear by making tiny alterations.
I love you
I have proof of his struggle in the form a letter he sent my mother. I found it in the garbage. It is still crumpled, but I had it framed. It says, in quite lovely, elegant handwriting: âI havenât drunk anything for some time now and donât intend to as long as I keep away from it.â That he would seek pity from my mother â a woman incapable of
any
human emotion, especially pity â says something about his judgement. So does the pathetic idea that by âkeeping away from itâ he could cure himself. And Iâm sure this wasnât just about booze. It was about his body, about the body in general, about its tyranny.
I visited him, and saw where he lived, and looked into his eyes. My mother didnât want me to do any of this. But I made Virginia take me. I insisted. I could see there was a Buddhist sort of struggle going on â a veiled calm behind his eyes, and the veil was tears. Iâm not extolling him because he wasnât one of the young men in a front row reaching out to me. Iâm not praising him for suffering. But his devotion to me (and I know he was devoted to me even though he lived far away at the end) was a devotion that was purely his own, purely independent, purely original. He loved me despite my mother, despite who he was and despite a world telling him he couldnât love me and still remain himself. His adoration was not part and parcel of trying to be accepted by a group; in fact, it was quite the opposite. When I sang: âZing went the strings . . .â on the radio the night he died, I was singing to one man only: to him.
I didnât mean to get onto this âfather and the radio showâ business, even though I warned you about it earlier. I thought you might interpret it the wrong way, and you may still. But thatâs one of the things I have been thinking about lately. Of course, I realize that I am an addict, and I donât have any delusions about
not
being one â or of graduating from that condition. But I am thinking about the way I divide things so carefully now, in such a controlling way: a time for this and a time for that. I dare not speak or write about certain things, or do them, because it will connect me with you-know-what. And of course I cannot, must not, go back
there
.
I think instead there is a point when a person canât live with, and doesnât need, boundaries. Dangerous talk, you will say. I am not abandoning the self-evident truth that I am an addict. For in a world in which there are so few truths, strangely, addiction is empirical. Even that antique deconstructionist Derrida acknowledged empirical truths, of opening a door or touching a table or being struck in the face and feeling the sting. Well, the tangible reality here is my addiction. But what I am frustrated with is the relentless order of my life â which I have imposed upon myself to protect me from ever straying. The loss of those minute satisfactions â I hardly ever eat old-fashioned unpackaged food, hardly ever have a sip of coffee, and I feel so guilty, so very guilty, for the occasional, very occasional, cigarette. Perhaps these activities might not, in the future, be spaced out so religiously (or should I say Jesuitically?). Is that possible? Because this tedious discipline has become my way of life. And I really donât think I have anything to fear by making tiny alterations.
I love you
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