Cont. from prev. ent.

[Author’s note: Although this entry is continued from the previous entry, it does not require any knowledge of the previous entry; in fact, I would suggest ignoring the previous entry and jumping straight into this one. Thanks for obeying.]

Dear diary,

Yet I ask myself, in light of all that was said above: Why spend time in resolute sobriety, reading the words of late prophets, instead of awaking every morning to drink sherry by the cask, then spending the rest of the afternoon at the brothel? As Milton’s “Lycidas” always sez:

Alas! What boots it with uncessant care 

To tend the homely slighted shepherds trade,   

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?

The answer is that I am on the wrong path. I should indeed indulge in strong drink and spend more time with whores.

But it also feels wrong to conclude in this glib way, without considering the consequences of these actions. Admittedly, there is no downside to alcohol; but what about all the children that the harlots will bear – how can I know for sure that they are mine?

I will emulate Joseph, who stood up and served as the father of Jesus, even deigning to provide the seed for his creation, when the boy’s heavenly father abandoned his mother. (Modern slang talkers might say he ghosted her.) This type of situation occurs frequently among magdalenes; but I’m not afraid to sign any number of marriage contracts. Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed.

§

While we were recently helping my own mother move into her new apartment, we found in a box of keepsakes my old baby book. “Baby books are scrapbooks used by parents to record their children’s development and mark milestones; they are often pre-fabricated with fill-in-the-blank areas and places to keep special mementoes.” Mine was titled Our Baby’s First Seven Years. It’s mostly incomplete; the majority of sections and questions were left blank. Yet anything that was filled in was done by my mom. (My dad, though physically present, was a nonentity.) While paging thru the book this morning, I was surprised how staid it is. It leaves me with the impression that my mother is a very limited person. I’ll share some parts from it here – I bet that I can copy out everything of interest before reaching the finish line of this entry:

Parents’ names: Doug & Rita.

Baby’s Name: Bryan Ray.

Named for: Doug’s army friend. Doug & I liked the name and the spelling of it.

A few loose documents are included at the beginning of the book: there is a newspaper clipping with my birth announcement; a Certificate of Baptism (from 8 July 1979 – more than two years after my advent); and a handwritten note with the following list of concerns . . .

Ask Dr. Reed re:

• spots on face
• spitting up & crying ½ hour after eating
• spitting up after having been burped – or patting his back for several minutes & no burp, then spit up when laid down
• loose stool – what does it indicate?

On reading this I reflect that, since those earliest hours of existence, my life has not changed much.

The first proper page in the book has an illustration of a family tree, with places for names on all the branches, which my mom filled in completely; except, on her side, she only entered the name of her step-father and step-grandparents.

The next page, titled “News of the Day,” provides several lines to allow for full reports, under two separate headings: “World news” and “Local news” – both of which sections my mother left blank. . . . But she listed the “Popular entertainers: Barbra Streisand, Robert Redford, Clint Eastwood, John Denver.”

Under the bold word “Christmases” there are spaces to record seven years of memories. For “Year One,” mom wrote: “Minus -15 degrees & weird weather. VERY cold.” Then for Year Two: “Bryan sang Xmas songs and danced a lot.” And Year Three: “Loves to sing Christmas songs – ‘Frosty the Snowman’, ‘Jingle Bells’, & ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’.” (Years “Four” through “Seven” were all left blank.)

In a free space on the next page, my mother handwrote the following (I’m not sure why her first sentence is so awkwardly worded):

Bryan does pretending in his playing at age 22 months. I saw him lay a tiny doll on a bed & say “See you in the morning,” then walk away & scream with laughter.

On the “Age 2” page, under “Outdoor play,” she wrote: “Climbs snowbank & slides down, uses broken shovel to sweep snow around.”

This made me roll my eyes – specifically the phrase “broken shovel” – because, when we were helping my mother clean out her garage this past summer, we tried to persuade her to get rid of several shovels that she was keeping, all the blades of which had been grinded down to less than half their original size by intense overuse; but my mother would neither part with these tools nor explain what abusive conditions had left them so ravaged.

In a margin of the book, this handwritten note appears:

Age 3½ – Bryan loves to try on masks & costumes. Loves to pretend he’s someone else . . .

Also:

He recognizes & names letters that he sees on books & signs, etc. He wants to be able to make letters on his chalk board, & gets furious that he can’t yet.

And all the following is recorded under “Personal Habits”:

Bryan loves to be busy with a magnet . . . loves looking at books about magic . . . Very interested in who does the acting in movies & shows.

Hates to go to bed.

I often help him get dressed – which is wrong, since he’s very capable of dressing himself.

Is very receptive to learning about God.

Still needs to work on self-control.

On the page for “Five Years Old,” while she completed nothing else besides “Games Played: Balloon Race; Musical Chair” [sic – I couldn’t resist keeping her singular form of that latter game’s title: it sounds so desolate], my mother wrote in the empty space where you’re supposed to display a photograph:

Bryan listens as I pray each night before bed, & each morning we have ‘devotions’ from a small book. He asks questions about whether God likes certain activities.

Sounds creepy to me.

But, hey, look at this: we’ve already reached the end of the book! – There’s just one last brief account that my mother wrote, on the space of a blank page before the back cover:

6^th birthday – Party at our house. Invited neighborhood kids to play games. Served ham sandwiches, potato chips, & white cake with cherry frosting. Bryan didn’t eat anything.

I remember that birthday. That was the year when a great spirit of indignation descended upon me, and I felt repulsed by all the traditions of my parents’ culture. (To this day, I firmly maintain the same persuasion.)