Glyph (3 page)

Mo and Clyde talked about painting for a while, until they were awkwardly silent and Clyde said that he had to go home.

1

In this culture predispositions of the conquered and oppressed seep into the foreground; it is those of lesser intelligence who seek salvation or, at least, refuge in it. This is why, more often than not, they are Christians. I am subjugated in the same way—I’m a baby, for crying out loud—but I do not fall for it. I don’t believe in sin. My body is not bad. I was playing with my willy just this morning. Inflato was shocked to find me touching myself and told me in a nice, but strained, tone not to do it anymore. He no doubt believed that my propensity for self-stimulation was connected in some way to my lack of speech and finally because of some holandric gene
¹⁴
the presence of which was his fault. The first thing the Christians did after they chased out the Moors was close the public baths.

2

Inflato hates his senses. He thinks they want to trick him.

1. Inflato kisses my mother stiffly, his lips hard, dry, unyielding like bricks and they have sex because they are married, because they must turn to each other for it. They own each other in that sense. They are each other’s cars. Sex is maintenance. Mo is hurt by each routine spin around the block. She cries and the darkness in her swells ever greater and so, oddly, she is fed by it, the sickness, fed by the thing that kills her. But isn’t that the human way? Kill the lamb for meat. Kill yourself for truth.
   
2. Inflato’s scalp was dry, I noticed. It was a paricularly cold day and I was bundled up and wearing an itchy cap. There was a spring in his gait that day. We collected his mail, another rejection of his manuscript—this one from the University of Massachusetts Press—a nice enough letter. The bounce in his step persisted however as we left the building and walked a block to a nearby restaurant where we met the young woman.
   
3. Laura was not as pretty as my mother on second viewing. Her hair was well cared for and her nails were neat, but her eyes were clear in that bad way. From my perch on my father’s side of the booth I could see into her eyes and I could see forever. I could see the horizon. Nothing stood between me and infinity. But even I, at my age, could see that whereas nothing stood between me and the back of her head, that same nothing stood between my father and her nipples.
   
4. Laura asked about my mother. Inflato told her that Mo was a artist and “a fine one, but she has bouts with insecurity.”
   

   “That’s too bad,” Laura said.
   

   “It’s really quite tiring. I find myself trying to build her up all the time. I mean, I want her to do well, but I’ve got my own work to do.”
   

   “I read your paper on alterity,” Laura said.
   

   Zing!
   

5. My father tried to give me a sip of his juice, then laughed with Laura at the face I made. She said I was adorable. He said I looked like my mother. Bastard. She asked him if they could get together another time. He say that he would like that. Then he put the itchy cap back on my head.
   

The shadowy figure relaxing in the corner is four years old now, and tucked away writing this. Writing myself into being? I think not. Doing more than surface, novelistic rendering? I think not. All too aware, am I, of my large ears and frightening silence, a silence so intimidating that my parents run from me. My emotional makeup is a sculpture, a marble real-world representation of the real world. Buoys float in my tears and toy boats collect about the buoys. Mondrian considered his work “New Realism,” claiming to see in nature what it was he represented, however cold and mathematical and even empty. Poor, poor Piet. But if that’s what he saw.…The world I see has no hard edges like his and it is full of symbols, but not simply my symbols or my language’s symbols, but reality’s own symbols. We do not give the creature
reality
enough credit, choosing to see it sitting out there as either a
construct
of ours or an infinitely regressing cause for the trickery of our senses. But I claim here that the most important thing I have learned in my four years is that reality has a soul, reality is conscious of itself and of us, and further is not impressed by us or our attempts to see it. In fact, we see it all the time and don’t know it, perhaps can’t. It is like love in that way.

Mo knew the essential thing. She knew that what she loved loved her back. It was not me, but the colors, the shapes, the stretcher bars of her canvases. They loved her and she could feel it. She never spoke of it and wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have understood the idea of speaking of it and as soon as she considered speaking of it, it would have become unintelligible. Mo was in that world too real to speak.

“So, you had lunch today?” Mo asked.

Inflato picked me up to greet me in the living room and ignored the question.

“Well?”

“Did you have lunch with someone?”

“Yes. A graduate student. A woman who is interested in alterity.”

My mother fed me more and more books. I read the Bible, the Koran, all of Swift, all of Sterne,
Invisible Man
, Baldwin, Joyce, Balzac, Auden, Roethke. I read about game theory and evolution, about genetics and fluid dynamics. I read about Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, Joseph McCarthy. I read the service manual for my parents’ ’63 Saab, for the Maytag washing machine, for the Kenmore air conditioner. I came to know about the interactions of adults and the workings of machines, history, and the problems of epistemology. Experience was something I understood would be gained, but my comprehension of those things that had yet happened to me was substantial and solid. I dreamed about fishing with Hemingway and walking the streets of Paris with James Baldwin. I didn’t know what flan tasted like, but I knew how one was made. I could picture the recoil of a fired shotgun and the damage done to the unsuspecting mallard. Through reading, I had built a world, a complete world, my world, and in it, I could live, not helplessly as I did in the world of my parents. I took the fuel dear Mo provided, but I did not use it immediately to write
Ralph on Ralph
, but to write poems. I wrote them on the pages of a loose-leaf notebook with a crayon (pen and pencils are dangerous) supplied by my mother.

This was the first and it caused Mo to faint dead away. When she came to I was still in my crib staring at her.

“You wrote this?”

I nodded.

My father did not believe my mother when she presented him with my first poem. He didn’t laugh, but looked at it and asked, “Okay, what am I supposed to say?”

“Your son wrote this,” Mo said.

“Eve,” he complained. Inflato looked over at me. I was standing in my playpen, holding myself up by the padded rail.

“He did,” Mo insisted. She got up from the sofa and walked over to me with my notebook and a crayon. “Ralph,” she said, “write something else.”

I understood why she was asking and I sympathized with her situation, but I could not simply write on demand. I stared at the book, admiring the infinity of the blank page. Inflato made some kind of disparaging remark that might have been meant for Mo, me, or both of us.

“Oh, Ralph,” Mo said.

I tried to shrug my baby shoulders.

“I’m going to the office,” Inflato said. “I’ve got some papers to grade.” He stopped at my pen on his way to the door. “Say ‘bye-bye,”’ he said.

I blew a raspberry through my lips.

Inflato was beside himself with excitement. Roland Barthes was coming to visit the campus. Barthes was his hero and though Mo had slipped me a couple of books written by the man, I did not share my father’s enthusiasm. I had read his
Elements of Semiology
and
S/Z
¹⁵
and so he was no mystery to me. But Inflato was bouncing off the walls, singing and saying to my mother at the breakfast table that perhaps Roland Barthes would read his manuscript and then everything would be on track.

Inflato brought the great man home.

Mo lifted me from my playpen and carried me to the table. As she strapped me into my high chair, she whispered, “I hope you’re not as bored as I am.” I nodded, but she didn’t see it. I looked at the cigarette dangling from Barthes’ fingers. He did not notice my staring. I don’t think he was aware of my presence.

I looked up because of what I had heard, but my parents were so perplexed as to be dumbfounded. They stared at their plates and pushed pork butt and string beans around. But Barthes was looking at my mother with his French accent.