There was a crazy old man who lived in France .... He ran
seminars -- excuse me, Seminaires -- in which he would sometimes fall asleep.
He spoke in terms no one could and few wanted to understand. He introduced a
few interesting concepts and the notion of "Nom du Pere" ... the Name
of the Father. I once wrote an irreverent parody of his students' work in a
piece called "Au Nom du Grandpere."
Howard,
you should be ashamed of yourself.
In
fact, one of your inlaw kids said you should be thus ashamed.
Ah, well. I'm not.
In his works, Jacques Lacan (Le Con) separated out the real father, from the
imagined father (the
inside image of Pops), and the symbolic father. I was thinking of this
whole Father thing or Grandfather fling for the past week. Who the Hell am
I to my family and to my near and dear. Two of my friends have recently
gone into the haze of Alzheimer's and I guess I'm thinking that if I'm ever
gonna figure this out? Better sooner than later.
I suppose these are questions that torment Fathers and Mothers, Sons and Daughters, Brothers and Sisters. If a significant component to who we imagine we are is how we imagine Others see us, then this may be one of the great existential questions that plague us in each stage of life, Last Quarter included -- but this, so to speak, the last chance to figure it out.
As any Readers out there have come to understand, I don't have many answers but do like asking questions and fascinating about things (like why my editors keep whining about "fascinating" not
being a verb ... "get a life").
So, it was one of those rare days, yesterday ... not humid, not too hot ... "just so," as Goldilocks said about the Baby Bear's bed. It has been just the day for an old person to do some Garden clean-up. And this morning, I loaded up a pick-axe, a shovel and a steel rake to help my youngest clean out some flower beds. I enjoyed it but got caught up in the Fantasy: "I'm Fronk" ....
Who's Fronk, you may ask. Well, when we were young, there was a show about a family ... Father, Mother and the three Lil' Bears ... Betty the oldest was maybe a senior in High School and always wore flared skirts or maybe culottes**. Bud was a couple of years younger and always in trouble. Kathy was the baby -- maybe just pre-teen. The Show was called "Father Knows Best" and was an ironic play on "Father Don't Know Nothin,' as Dear Old Dad, always in tie and buttoned suit jacket, consistently got every-thing wrong. Mom was always dressed in a mid-ankle dress and was always on the right side of history. Dad would fuck it up ... Mom would figure out a way to fix it while allowing Pops to keep face, in spite of his clumsiness in living.
There was, however, another character in the story that would regularly show up ... Fronk the Mexican Gardener. I don't think it was known whether Fronk had a Green Card ... this was before Newt Gingrich got excited ... Newt was, maybe, a social Liberal in those days. In any case, I've become obsessed with the idea that I'm Fronk.
Further support for this fantasy arises from an incident in the year we moved into our present home, 1979. We moved in in the Spring and I spent the Summer working in the yard across the fence from my neighbor Rudie, who spoke German quite well. We would talk about Raspberry Hedges and Cabbage and Celery and Hungry Rabbits and the like. The next Summer, feeling quite comfortable with him and eager to meet his wife, I sent them an invitation to a party; total strangers showed up.
Hi. Who are you?
We're your neighbors.
From where?
From next door.
But ... But ... you're not Rudy.
Rudy's our Gardener.
Thus, in my mind and at least for today, my existential dilemma is solved:
I am not the Walrus ... I am the Gardener .... I am Fronk! … maybe even Rudie!
** If you don't know what culottes are, hang up your i-phone and call your Grannie or go check out a blog about hip-hop
I suppose these are questions that torment Fathers and Mothers, Sons and Daughters, Brothers and Sisters. If a significant component to who we imagine we are is how we imagine Others see us, then this may be one of the great existential questions that plague us in each stage of life, Last Quarter included -- but this, so to speak, the last chance to figure it out.
As any Readers out there have come to understand, I don't have many answers but do like asking questions and fascinating about things (like why my editors keep whining about "fascinating" not
being a verb ... "get a life").
So, it was one of those rare days, yesterday ... not humid, not too hot ... "just so," as Goldilocks said about the Baby Bear's bed. It has been just the day for an old person to do some Garden clean-up. And this morning, I loaded up a pick-axe, a shovel and a steel rake to help my youngest clean out some flower beds. I enjoyed it but got caught up in the Fantasy: "I'm Fronk" ....
Who's Fronk, you may ask. Well, when we were young, there was a show about a family ... Father, Mother and the three Lil' Bears ... Betty the oldest was maybe a senior in High School and always wore flared skirts or maybe culottes**. Bud was a couple of years younger and always in trouble. Kathy was the baby -- maybe just pre-teen. The Show was called "Father Knows Best" and was an ironic play on "Father Don't Know Nothin,' as Dear Old Dad, always in tie and buttoned suit jacket, consistently got every-thing wrong. Mom was always dressed in a mid-ankle dress and was always on the right side of history. Dad would fuck it up ... Mom would figure out a way to fix it while allowing Pops to keep face, in spite of his clumsiness in living.
There was, however, another character in the story that would regularly show up ... Fronk the Mexican Gardener. I don't think it was known whether Fronk had a Green Card ... this was before Newt Gingrich got excited ... Newt was, maybe, a social Liberal in those days. In any case, I've become obsessed with the idea that I'm Fronk.
Further support for this fantasy arises from an incident in the year we moved into our present home, 1979. We moved in in the Spring and I spent the Summer working in the yard across the fence from my neighbor Rudie, who spoke German quite well. We would talk about Raspberry Hedges and Cabbage and Celery and Hungry Rabbits and the like. The next Summer, feeling quite comfortable with him and eager to meet his wife, I sent them an invitation to a party; total strangers showed up.
Hi. Who are you?
We're your neighbors.
From where?
From next door.
But ... But ... you're not Rudy.
Rudy's our Gardener.
Thus, in my mind and at least for today, my existential dilemma is solved:
I am not the Walrus ... I am the Gardener .... I am Fronk! … maybe even Rudie!
** If you don't know what culottes are, hang up your i-phone and call your Grannie or go check out a blog about hip-hop
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