Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Saturday, June 10, 2017
 
diary (3)


And dadda’s sat there all through results night, tired in his chair,
and he says the sun went down and the sun came up and like in
that song the youth have bubbled up, just like a 7-up, and we
have brought dadda a red plant to put somewhere he can see it.
The posturing hag on the silenced screen is making noises.
Just noises. She is going to need new friends from the asylum
who understand noises they can’t hear. She can talk to them.
Dadda says he loves the red plant. It’s a plant I can be proud of,
he says. The first time for a long time. The posturing hag sent
someone to the door a few days ago with blue flowers for him
but dadda doesn’t care for cut flowers. He will only have plants
in the house, not cut flowers. He used to be a gardener and he
always says that in the end he couldn’t take the killing. He couldn’t
take the filling of orders for flowers. He didn’t like to watch them
cut and dying and rotting in vases of fetid water. Blue flowers in
such a vase are a perversion of aesthetics, says dadda, as if
suffocation and putrefaction might ever beautify a room. The job
made him think – he couldn’t say why – of Treblinka. Do you
remember, he says, when you were children, and we would go to the
woods, and we would go to the woods as friends of whatever was
there. We remember. We didn’t kill flowers to take them home to
learn their names. We’d bring a small book and head for the silver
birches by the sandy river and dadda used to say if we find your
name here we shall know you by it and if we don’t we will still call
you something in our dreams until we know better
. And once when
we were old enough we debated what to call a red mushroom in a
language of our own.


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