Heavy

I just realized that today is February 15th and that is my father's birthday. This isn't very big or exciting news because my father passed away in 1994. I have written a lot about my father. It feels weird to say that because his death, and absence, has never really seemed that emptying. He died when I was 9 and the earliest memories I can remember are from when I was 5 or so. Hence, I really don't remember my father very much. He is an enigma that lives bigger and better in the stories my sister and mother tell.

I like literature that explores the masculine. I find this kind of story hard to find. Sure, there are plenty of stupid masculine stories and magazines. However, stories of bravado and machismo really don't do it much for me. I refuse to think that being masculine means that you are simple and inherently violent. I refuse to think that the highest expression of masculinity out there is Maxim (Oh, do I loathe Maxim!) This is why I like Chuck Palahniuk so much. His first book, Fight Club, talked about boyhood and masculinity. He used the violent stereotypes to question what it meant to be a real modern "man." A man raised by women, which I was. I don't regret being raised by my mother and I really don't, or ever, missed my father. I am sorry if that sounds callous and cruel. I know he was a nice guy, but I never really, really got to see that.

However, I still find myself writing a lot about my father. Here is a series of pieces I wrote about this. They are fictional and written in the style of a grown man writing to his dead father. I am only 22, so these letters are a bit pretentious, but I felt it was appropiate to give them so blog action.

This entry also marks a new blogging perspective for me. I usually try to post original original material here. Hence, I wanted to just hammer out stuff on the computer and not pull something from a journal of mine. I actually write a lot more with pen and paper then this blog would let you know. I realized it would be good of me to actually try and type these pieces out. They will grow as they translate from the page to the blog, and hopefully improve.

Sorry, if this is a bit heavy for anyone that might have stumbled upon my blog or returns to it every so often. I could write another Co-op of Justice piece, if you would like! EH!? Let me know. Peace!

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"A Fistful of Letters"
by Garik Charneco

My father, who art in heaven, what is it like to die? You are the best source I know. I sometimes think of the actual act of dying while lying in bed. My wife's breath falls up and down and I reminded of mother's own breath, breaking over my forehead, that night. I imagine an infinite darkness where you lay on a soft cushion. The cushion is made of velvet and usually purple, but sometimes I imagine it red. You lay down on the cushion and you feel warm, like a thick blanket just pulled from the linen closet. Then the blanket sweeps off, but you still feel warm because dozens of hands start to caress you. They feel like silk. They run from head to toe and pull you deeper into the black. There is no deity or light, only away. I would like to know what it is like to die. I am sorry if that makes me selfish.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what college would you have liked me to attend? Only now I realize my own strength and know I would not be lead so easily like my sister. What did you think of the fights me and mom had? Did you laugh when we actually came to blows, her lunging at me with a mop and myself grabbing an umbrella in defense? I grabbed the mop handle after deflecting it with the umbrella. I was fat back then and put all my weight into throwing her back. My elbow came up and knocked her in the chin. Just a tap. Were you horrified? Would you have approved of my direction? Of my major? Of my first job?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, did you see my bike accident junior year of college? I learned to ride a bike from Eddie, mom's first boyfriend. I bought one my first summer away from home to get around. I sprung a flat tire after skirting a rock by the reservoir. I was two miles from my apartment. A thunderhead began to develop on the horizon. I began to cry because I had no idea what to do. I made sure no one was around.


-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please explain to me these lingering memories. They flash in my mind every so often and you seem to be the only connection. Please explain...

• An abandoned miniature golf course.
• A natural blowhole by the sea.
• A leaking canoe filled with snails.
• A latrine in the desert.
• A lemon tree split in two, yet still alive.
• The smell of leather seats.
• A crop of pigeon peas.
  

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please explain these favors. The last time someone called me "Rafa's Boy" I had returned back home for mom's surgery. Please explain all your old friends to me. The aforementioned was an insurance salesman who said he could help me get a car. While I was back home, taking care of mom, you know. There are men everywhere that owe you favors. Other bankers, business owners, and a farmer too. I have never asked my sister about these, but do they ask her too. I have never pulled these strings. Mom reminds me to call these men every Christmas even though I don't know them and my wife, she can barely pronounce their names.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what did you think when mom sold the house? I didn't really care. It was just a house. I drove by the old neighborhood while visiting the island and saw the Flamboyant* tree you planted right before you died. Mom wanted to cut because she feared its roots would rip up the sidewalks. She had a handyman trim its wild branches back into a gumdrop shape. I went out that night and poured the rest of the blue fertilizer powder you kept in the shed over its hidden roots. It was there when I left home and still there when I visited. It was flowering for, I believe, the first time ever. It's flowers burst against the concrete horizons of the house. They were yellow, a canary color with small flecks of salmon rimming the edges of the bottom petals. I imagine it pregnant with the oar shaped fruits, the ones we turned into swords at school. Grandma always called that tree "male" and that is why it never flowered. It still reminds me of you.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, if you can see my house then I am sorry for the lack of any pictures of you. Mom made me keep a tiny picture of you by my besides. It was next to the tiny crucifix she also made me keep.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, when mom screamed, "I am glad your father isn't here to see this!" were you glad?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what did you think of my reverse birth idea? I imagine you heard me when the lowered grandma's ashes into the same plot as you. Your daughter gave birth to twin boys. I carried one up to your plot that day and shielded it's head with my hand. It was sunny, a gorgeous day and in the horizon you could see that sea. My sister, your daughter, held her other son and said, "There lies your grandpa too. Watching you from heaven with God and the Holy Ghost." She said this in soft coos. She repeated the refrain to the grandson I held in my hands.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, do you laugh when I daydream. Are you disappointed by the lack of sex and the prevalence of power rings? I apologize, but you must have seen those furtive minutes of me masturbating and everything with my girlfriend, fiancee, and wife.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, is there a God? Again, you are the best source I know. I always assumed that if there was a God then you would get to ask him or her three questions upon your entrance to the afterlife. I still plan to ask him the same questions. The kind of questions I would have asked you, but on a grander scale, like who really shot JFK?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please verify these stories. They are all I have of you, passed on from grandma, mom, sister, and the rest.

• Did you really steal Grandma's car when you were nine to go see mom?
• Did you really lose 35 pounds in basic training?
• Did you really run across town naked and covered in paint as part of a fraternity initiation?
• Did you have an M.B.A?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, did you really die? I ask because I imagine that your death must have brought something like a rain of yellow flowers to the land. I half-expect to see you someday on the subway or on the street. A lonely man, who still carries himself with great weight and pride. You will speak in an accent, but only because I have one to you. I will come up to you, but then be afraid because you know so much about me and I am writing these letters.

-Boy

__________________________

All we need is for Thursday or the Fray to slap some music onto this and I got the next emo hit!

*To those unfamiliar with PR..."flamboyant tree"