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.As much as I had hoped to court ambiguity, complication, and mystery regarding my basic relationship to Ben, to somehow annex my motherhood to my other projects, so that I was not merely shepherding another average person into the midwestern atmosphere, there is a fate that I am not imaginative enough to outdistance, a biology I have yet to surpass.I would like to alter it with chemicals.I would like to zero my heart, enter a silent house, and perform the gestures that will deliver me from all of the sameness.To be new in this awful, old job.I would like to outsmart the role that is destined for me.But I can’t.I have failed to destroy my category.Did I ask to be Ben’s mother? I did not.Did I know that you were having sex with me? I did.Did I enjoy it? I did not.Encourage it? No.Did I realize that your rampant thrusting over my deliberately inert body would lead to a child such as Ben? I don’t think so.Whose fault is it? Mine, of course.Is anyone else to blame? You are.Do I want something from you now? You’d better fucking believe it.First, listen to what is happening to him; attend to my decay narrative.Next, note my requests of you.Note them.Note them.Note them.Last, learn what has been decided for you.One, two, three.Is there a punishment in store for you? Possibly, probably, awfully certainly.Yes.Better to think of it as a fate, a result, a consequence to what you did and didn’t do.I mean to extract some final favors from you.You will soon see why you will be compelled to grant them.Pay attention.Note: All quotes of you are taken from real things you said.I will quote you liberally.I will paraphrase you.I will channel your voice, imitate you.Since you apparently believe first and foremost in yourself, since you only subscribe to ideas of your own issue, I will allow your own words a front-and-center role.By pretending to be you, I will finally have you believe me.In case you get bored.In case you fool yourself into thinking another person’s words, even your former wife’s, are beyond, beneath, or beside your notice.Just in case.Put this aside at your peril.Read this at your peril.Do nothing at your peril.Breathe at your peril.No matter what, your peril will be the featured attraction of that portion of time we have been conservatively, cautiously, fearfully referring to as the future.If it is bad, and it hasn’t happened yet, rest assured it will.You can look forward to it.At your absolute, total peril.Now.Because we have withdrawn to opposite wings of the house this season, where we cannot audit the growth of our “son,” or even gather at the behavior farm to chalk-talk an emotion-concealment style for his upcoming Akron debut, I am submitting a memorandum to you that demands your immediate attention.My concern is manifold and complicated and probably beyond your narrow comprehension.You need only know that my worry is for the boy we made together, who roves the Marcus property so cautiously, so breakably, that even our domestic animals could probably molest him for their own amusement.Yes, you have visitation of Ben as part of the Allotment for Father.You ostensibly observe him at work and at play, alone, with others, asleep, at table, weeping, laughing, bleeding: the basic behaviors.But can I rely on you to be appropriately alarmed when Ben is less than average, inferior, loathsome, predictable? I cannot.My aim is to forestall the demise of this new person we once shared ambition for.Although our launch objectives may have forked (yours into God knows where), we are each, I imagine, still vested in Ben’s success enough to revise our separate child-rearing styles, which might ensure his feeble life at least through this season’s behavior trials.It is not appropriate—indeed, it is alarming—for a boy of Ben’s age to be developing the hairline of a much older gentleman, and the apologetic body style of a low-riding dog.He appears to be someone who might more appropriately carry a cane, or use a walker to get himself comfortably from the couch to the toilet, if he even moves at all [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]