The Symbolic Father is not a real person but more like a position or a
function. The symbolic father is also called the dead father, or the father
of the primal horde who has been murdered by his own sons. He's first. You
remember Georges F. Doriot, that handsome transplanted Frenchman, the father
of Venture Capitalism. The Imaginary Father is an imago, the composite of
all the imaginary constructs that you built up around the guy. This
imaginary construction often bears little relationship to the guy as he is
in real life. The imaginary father can be an ideal, fun father or the
opposite, "the father who has fucked you up." I'm thinking about J. Franklin
Hyde, the father of silicones, the father of Dow Corning, basically.
Finally, The Real Father is the famed agent of castration. He is the one who
says, "I will watch Bad Santa with you anytime, anywhere." The real father
thinks girl softball players are hot. One example is Albert Hofmann, the
father of LSD. Or Shigeru Miyamoto, the father of Donkey Kong, Mario, Zelda
and, most recently, the Wii.
Frankie said he spent most of the night on "the old cut throat." The men
already knew about Frankie's serious agitations from the domestic workers,
who said he asked them to hold tight and menstruate. He asks it of all his
maids and nanny girls and tells them that having a good body is what makes
them human, since no other living thing has the capacity to do it. Frankie
is no dummy about the body. For a woman, having a good body is like a
second self or a friend. The logs began to come down between 8 and 9
o'clock, accompanied by ice, and as the endless line of timber rolled down
over the apron of the falls, thousands of men watched with interest from the
bridge and other commanding points. But Frankie never joined his men, he
just stayed inside waiting for his maids and nanny girls to finish their
barbecue sandwiches.
"Who wants cake?" Richard asked. His shirt said Facehumper. Everyone liked
his sense of humor. He was seventeen years older than me but it was my
birthday party.
He picked up a Sky Mall and began flipping through its pages quickly.
"You seen these camouflaged fan blades in here? Turn any fan into a
camo fan," he said.
Neely brought her androgynous tongue to my birthday party and went to work
on Richard.
"I won't tolerate your pussy slang," she told him.
I loved listening to her run him down, but I later came to believe that
Neely's joke was a sort of clue, one that hinted at some secrets they'd
never let me in on.
Neely got her earring stuck in her hair. She wore ugly jewelry and when a
piece broke she used a red epoxy. While some people considered her a genius,
I still sought after the earlier model: fill a gap, extend an assumption, or
correct something.
He didn't cry again until the three of us got to the hotel. Neely and I wore
nightgowns. I asked Richard if I could get him a beer and he started to cry
with his mouth closed, it sounded like a woman laughing in the next room.
Neely looked at him and said, "Oh, you're crying!"
The sun was coming up and Neely and I went after the shipment. Finally, the
boss came and told us that there was a problem with the gas. He said we
would not ship that day, and to go home. We gathered our purses and walked
out past the men. They saluted the freedom that was all of ours. It was
springtime, and we were tan.
My mother disagreed with me about how a book ended. She became angry and
began to yell. Go back and read it earlier, my mother said. Then she died
and I'll lay a wager that she wasted her energies on some very pagan shit.