For Richard Ellis

Between numbers and aging we talk about reduced circumstances. “I'm dangerous right now,” he says. “Oh really?,” I reply. “And stop calling me Richard,” he says. “Only mother does that.” “Richard,” I say, “I love being men's mother.” “Nooooo,” he says. “Yeeeees,” I say. “Everybody loves their mother, and I want to be loved. Forever and ever.” “You know what your problem is?” he asks. “Give me the word,” I excitedly say. “Energy.” “Nooooo” I say. “Really?” pretending that this is the first time I'm hearing about it. “And why is that a problem?” I say. “Because it's too precisely calibrated,” he says. “Yes,” I say. “42, that's the word”. And then it hits me. “Fuck me, I'll be 42 in 7 months, and some days, and some hours, and some minutes – I'm not good at counting, and arithmetics only gives me a headache.” “Fuck indeed," he says. “Drink your Guinness, then. Empty it. The glass.” And I'm thinking: In The book of Kells, it is written: The polar bear with pink wings will go for blood meridian. “At the pub with the bloody feminists, you have to argue about literature. And your arguments have to be good. Really good.” “Richard,” I say, “I'm going to the bathroom before you piss me off.” “Yes, yes, yes,” he says. Molly said that too. Yes, I'm in the middle of being fucked by 42. So it goes with men and their mothers. Clever men and their mothers.


PS: Richard, next time I see you, I'll have a silk tie for you. Silk, you hear me?

PPS: The paper, on aging, Eccentricity Galore, no problem friends, here it is. Don't get too depressed.


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