Gordon party, except possibly Jack himself, was wearing anything fancier than Frye motorcycle boots. But whatever.)
To this day, that âspiteful prank of partygoer pelting,â as one tabloid described it, is known across the predominately Jewish southeastern portion of our state as Eggnacht.
----
And there, my friends, you have it.
All set down.
Thus, alas, was my crass and terrible introduction to the bizarre bazaar of clandestine photography. I sat goggle-eyed in my basement control room, glued to the monitor, double- and triple-checking the red record light every few minutes, just to be absolutely sure that it was still illuminated and that I was indeed getting all of this.
Truth be told, this abject entertainment was just the right over-the-top shock-and-awe antidote to all the psychic pain, terror, and confusion I was in because of my parentsâ deaths. I required hyperstimulation and distraction every bit that strong to shut out all the poltergeists of speculation and memory that came crashing in on me full tilt if given the slightest chance.
And thatâs, I guess, what got me hooked on spying, and what kept it going so elaborately for so long. The need to abscond from myself, to throw off the hounds of my own conscience.
I watched that monitorâor later, my many monitorsâfor hours and hours on end, and drank until I lost consciousness, finding in that blackness a remote-channeled respite from the horror of the too immediately real.
----
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Itâs been thirteen years since your last confession.
This is mine.
I make it in the hope of meted penance.
5
I am so afraid.
Can I say that to you? Or to me? Myself. Nick Walsh. Whoever you are/I am. Can I admit that? Can I stand it?
Itâs true. The truest thing I can express.
Iâm afraid.
Afraid that I am my father.
God. How awful. How truly, terrifyingly awful.
And yet I so want to be him. I really do. I have always wanted that. And I know that that probably doesnât make any sense.
But I want it to make sense. I want it to make sense in the telling. Because my father was not a bad man. He really wasnât. That can be true, even while all the rest is true as well.
It can.
It is. It was.
I remember. I remember so much when I let myself. If I can stand the sear of it, like a hot iron on my tongue, the hiss of contact, the rebellion of every sense against the information.
I remember the trips to the Christmas tree farm when I was a boy, the dry, dry cold and the cerulean sky, the blinding sun splash on the powdered snow, feet deep in places, like sifted flour on the untracked ground, and on the boughs of every tree.
I can hear our boots squeaking on the trail, where other trekkers have trampled the snow into trenches deep and narrow. I can feel the tiny hairs in my nostrils tightening, and I can see Dadâs yellow leather work-gloved hand toting the rusted handsaw.
I can feel his competence in that hand, his control, and I can relax into the day and be an animal under the sun and in the air, purely alive and without agenda, following behind.
He will decide which tree is best, because he will know, having judged its lean and its symmetry. He will make a show of consulting me and he will note my objections, if I have any and if they are sensibly put forth.
These are the terms of the discourse. You must make an argument, a case, for the thing you want to express. This is what lawyers do, and so it is what the children of lawyers must do also. This much I know, even at eight, or seven, or six. As far back as that, surely. Emotion will get no response, except occasionally more emotion, and the only emotion Dad shows is anger, often channeled to disdain.
Choosing is a matter of dry judgment, even here, where we are looking at the shape and height of trees and wondering if they will look right in the corner of the room when the lights and ornaments are strung on them.
My father has no
To this day, that âspiteful prank of partygoer pelting,â as one tabloid described it, is known across the predominately Jewish southeastern portion of our state as Eggnacht.
----
And there, my friends, you have it.
All set down.
Thus, alas, was my crass and terrible introduction to the bizarre bazaar of clandestine photography. I sat goggle-eyed in my basement control room, glued to the monitor, double- and triple-checking the red record light every few minutes, just to be absolutely sure that it was still illuminated and that I was indeed getting all of this.
Truth be told, this abject entertainment was just the right over-the-top shock-and-awe antidote to all the psychic pain, terror, and confusion I was in because of my parentsâ deaths. I required hyperstimulation and distraction every bit that strong to shut out all the poltergeists of speculation and memory that came crashing in on me full tilt if given the slightest chance.
And thatâs, I guess, what got me hooked on spying, and what kept it going so elaborately for so long. The need to abscond from myself, to throw off the hounds of my own conscience.
I watched that monitorâor later, my many monitorsâfor hours and hours on end, and drank until I lost consciousness, finding in that blackness a remote-channeled respite from the horror of the too immediately real.
----
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Itâs been thirteen years since your last confession.
This is mine.
I make it in the hope of meted penance.
5
I am so afraid.
Can I say that to you? Or to me? Myself. Nick Walsh. Whoever you are/I am. Can I admit that? Can I stand it?
Itâs true. The truest thing I can express.
Iâm afraid.
Afraid that I am my father.
God. How awful. How truly, terrifyingly awful.
And yet I so want to be him. I really do. I have always wanted that. And I know that that probably doesnât make any sense.
But I want it to make sense. I want it to make sense in the telling. Because my father was not a bad man. He really wasnât. That can be true, even while all the rest is true as well.
It can.
It is. It was.
I remember. I remember so much when I let myself. If I can stand the sear of it, like a hot iron on my tongue, the hiss of contact, the rebellion of every sense against the information.
I remember the trips to the Christmas tree farm when I was a boy, the dry, dry cold and the cerulean sky, the blinding sun splash on the powdered snow, feet deep in places, like sifted flour on the untracked ground, and on the boughs of every tree.
I can hear our boots squeaking on the trail, where other trekkers have trampled the snow into trenches deep and narrow. I can feel the tiny hairs in my nostrils tightening, and I can see Dadâs yellow leather work-gloved hand toting the rusted handsaw.
I can feel his competence in that hand, his control, and I can relax into the day and be an animal under the sun and in the air, purely alive and without agenda, following behind.
He will decide which tree is best, because he will know, having judged its lean and its symmetry. He will make a show of consulting me and he will note my objections, if I have any and if they are sensibly put forth.
These are the terms of the discourse. You must make an argument, a case, for the thing you want to express. This is what lawyers do, and so it is what the children of lawyers must do also. This much I know, even at eight, or seven, or six. As far back as that, surely. Emotion will get no response, except occasionally more emotion, and the only emotion Dad shows is anger, often channeled to disdain.
Choosing is a matter of dry judgment, even here, where we are looking at the shape and height of trees and wondering if they will look right in the corner of the room when the lights and ornaments are strung on them.
My father has no
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