After I was cut from my mother’s backbone, it was up to my father to shape my gullible mind and that’s the truth.

My father was a surgeon, a shaman and a greyhound. A runner in his youth, he thought little of exercise and called himself a cultured couch potato. As a doctor he loved each patient and included them in what he called prayers. Having grown up Catholic, he turned humanist when enough sense came to him and his prayers did not come out the classic way though they were always classy. While he was operating, I imagine they went something like this in his head:

“Dear God, I don’t think you exist, or if you do, you should have done something for me when I asked. You don’t seem to want to ease the burden of the masses, and when I am out of luck, I don’t see you chip in either. Your holy church is a disgrace and your footprints on Earth are filled with blood. You’re a feeble almighty. I know I am having this conversation with myself in my own thick head but it doesn’t matter. So whether you exist or not: do something not for me but for this poor sod on the operating table here. Let him wake up and get better, for all of our sakes and for the good of his children. Thank you, Lord, who I most fervently do not believe in and never will as long as I live, see you later maybe.”

He wrote poems too, some good some bad but they were passionate and his. He loved to read them out loud and his voice never wavered. A poetic dinosaur shedding tears for bards long gone, he sat on a leather couch in the nude, blew smoke rings shaped like wild animals and picked verses out of the thick air.

He was collector and casanova at once. He’d return from scavenger hunts with gold watches, rings, precious books and feathers of exotic birds. They were tossed on shelves, hung from the ceiling, some of them buried. From sexual exploits he returned with stories of women, one for each finger, and I kept count for him when the tales were good. I would remember the names. The penalty for bad stories was obliteration by memory loss.

He never liked that I joined a corporation—he thought business bloodless and bloodlusting both. But he’s the one who taught me how to throw a bow tie round my neck like taming a snake. When I began to write he became excited and worried, too, which wasn’t like him at all but I understood. Words are scary creatures, things of divine making, weapons of mass delusion.

When he died, people wore dark colours and said nice things about him. They played sad music, which he wouldn’t have even liked, and they had his deathmask taken which made him look limp and not like him at all. When they were gone, weeks afterward, I bought a star on the Internet and named it after him, which seemed suitable, given that he is probably still dishing it out to God.

Published in BULL with an interview. Check out the first draft.

(I’m participating in NaNoWriMo. See also my weekly blog entries at Virtual Writers, Inc. This is an excerpt of an in vitro novel “Bloody Management” only. Unfettered, unedited, but not dispirited. From chapter 8, “Boxing”.)

When Hestia was eight, her father took her to a boxing match. It was a Heavyweight World Champion fight:

“Two really big guys are going to hit each other in the face and one must win”, he told her. He was practically foaming at the mouth with excitement, and so she was excited too, not knowing what to expect, really.

They had the best tickets, right at the ring, because her father was a lawyer who knew a lawyer who worked for the company that put on the fight. “This is big money, Hesty”, her father remarked, using her least favourite nickname, “really big money.”

There was a lot of talk about money in her family: mother complained about not getting paid enough through her Royalties – but when she asked her about the Royals, her mom only laughed.

“Not Royals, stupid, Royalties – money”, she cried, almost choking on her coffee. She was always drinking coffee, strong coffee, and she smelled of coffee mixed with cigarettes. Even now, after more than thirty years, Hestia still wanted to smoke if only to smell like her mother. Her father only talked about not talking about money, since he hated talking about it. He liked making it, though: “Your father is very good at making money, which is why you’ll never have to worry about anything”, her mother said, and: “Money isn’t everything but it’s good to have more of it.”

Then came the fight, the big money fight of the big guys. And big they were, not only for an eight-year-old. Hestia had put on special clothes: this was the first time her father had taken her out. She used a few things of her mother’s: emerald earrings playing nicely off her green eyes, and a black feather tiara. “Can I wear this”, she asked her mother, who was writing and only waved at Hestia, her mind having wandered off somewhere else.

Five minutes after taking her seats, Hestia was perspiring like never before and she thought she’d choke from the air which was heavy with smoke and the sweat and ire of two thousand people. She was uncomfortable and bored. Her father was gesticulating to his friend, who sat next to him: he showed how he’d take out the Russian: “A right jab when he’s outreached himself!”

When the two boxers were in the ring, Hestia saw that one of them, a black guy, was a lot shorter than the other one, who looked too calm to be hitting anyone in the face, a boy with giant hands and giant feet.

“This guy is a whopping nine inches taller!”, she heard her father say to his friend. They were both smoking cigars and her father seemed to have forgotten she was there. So that were nine inches. The black guy reached but to the chest of the other one. Still, they were both incredibly big. Hestia had thought her father large, but these two looked frightful.

About half an hour later – she had put her hands over her eyes -  she felt something fall in her lap, making a funny sound as it made contact with the tiara, and Hestia thought ‘how funny I should be able to hear this with all the noise’. She dropped her hands and picked it up: it was a bloody tooth.

My father was a writer and a great man, and his father was a writer, as was the one before him, and he was a great writer, too.

So that I got confused sometimes if greatness came from being a man, or a father, or a writer, or all of them at once, since the attribute ‘great’ seemed strewn so carelessly among my forefathers.

As for myself, I am a man most of all, then a father and a writer last, but great I am not in any of these, be it character, destiny, or occupation.

I can spell very well and I can raise a storm from a single drop of holy water.
And I sprinkle my verse with fairy dust to make it fly.

My greatness is fidelity to all things I observe from the lowliest love to the highest hatred.

My smallest word is ‘I’, which I use as an eye to look around from under my hood.

Published by Metazen, Oct 2009, with “iCarus” by ms flawnt

while as i said before i was cut from my mother’s backbone it was left to my father to shape my gullible mind, and that’s the truth. every human is a singularity out there with infinite space around & infinite depth beneath. as a child i knew that and i didn’t because black hole awareness anticipates death and that’s where fear lives.

nobody was ever more afraid of death than my father. he was a collector and a casanova. he returned from scavenger hunts with gold watches, rings, precious books, and feathers of exotic birds. they were tossed on shelves, hung from the ceiling and buried in small caves whose mounds magically opened taking the oblation and closing forever. he returned from his sexual exploits with stories of women, one for each finger of his hand – and i kept count for him when the tales were good. then i would also remember names. the penalty for bad stories was obliteration by memory loss.

he also was a surgeon, a shaman, and a greyhound. although a sprinter in his youth and loved running, he did not require extensive exercise and called himself a cultured couch potato. as a doctor, he loved each patient and included him in his prayers. having grown up as an ardent catholic, he had turned into humanistic marxist material so that these prayers did not come out the classic way though classy they were. i imagine in his head they went something like this:

“dear god, i dont think you exist, or if you do,  you should have done something for me when i asked. you don’t seem to want to ease the burden of the masses, and when i am out of luck, i dont see you ship in either. your church is a disgrace and your footprints on earth are filled with blood. you feeble allmighty. why did you let my father die by accident and how come my dick isn’t longer? i know i am having this conversation with myself in my own thick head but it doesnt matter. so whether you exist or not do something not for me but for this poor sod on the operating table here. let him wake up and get better, for all our sakes and for his childrens’, thank you, oh lord who i most fervently do not believe in and never will as long as i live, see you later maybe.”

my father loved tangerine dreams. he drew colours from the air and let me in on the secret of life, which can be found in a bunch of strangers who suddenly become a bubbling cauldron of creativity and sharing. he wrote poems, some good some bad but they were passionate and his. he loved to read them out loud & his voice did not waver. he was a poetic dinosaur shedding tears for bards long gone. i keep one of these tears in a flask by my bed.

he never liked that i joined the corp he thought business bloodless and bloodlusting both. but he taught me how to throw a bow tie round one’s neck like taming a snake. when i began to write he got excited and scared, too, which wasn’t like him at all but i understood. words are scary creatures, poop of divine making, weapons of mass delusion.

when my father died, many people said nice things about him & they wore dark colours, black mostly & they played sad music which he wouldnt have liked and they had his deathmask taken which looked lifeless & not like him at all. when they were gone, i named a star after him which seemed suitable given that he needed to continue dishing it out to god.

when my dad died he became my father & he was a daddy because i was his son & a husband to my mother of many years, who also lives among the stars & he had grown down finally & firmly rooted himself in my soil & he gave me mother’s milk as good as any.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt — with substantial help from the gods and various good-natured ancestors, on ascension which is father’s day in germany.