My aquarium is my little world. In it, I am GOD. I try to keep it clean, but even when I am trying to clean the thing, I am certain that I am horrifying my fish. Whether I put new water in the tank, or use the scrubber on a stick, which helps keep the algae away, I terrify them. So I try to keep the stress down for them. I try to gently pour the water in when I have to. I ease the water in.
I don't know. I try and keep the temperature correct, and I use the stuff that takes the chemicals out. I try and be a benevolent God. I mean, I set up all the conditions within which they live. This began as a project with my sons, and we set up an aquarium, they picked out the fish. They each got to choose what they wanted. They, of course, chose the most visually interesting critters that they could see: one looked like tomato soup. Semi-translucent Cori Cats sat on the bottom of the tank--they would live for years and years. And it was always a balancing act; I liked the look of a few bigger, brighter fish, while a small school of neon tetras danced behind. There was a suckerfish, who clung to the side of the tank at all times, and lived off of the algae. You kind of wanted a peaceful cube of aquatic beauty. That perfect world, which we know never exists, in which joy and beauty are regulated, and everything is safe and perfect for your fish. Kind of like being under water in a pool when you were a kid. You know that difference when you put on goggles or a scuba mask--it is as if everything is too perfect; suspended in this bluish, idyllic world, where there is no weight, and time almost stops and all of the relative points of gravity have disappeared, with the voices above muted until you erupt into the real world again.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
My father died in December, after a short, brutal battle with Parkinson's disease. He was a military historian, and he was also a pack rat. This house had filled up with papers, books, swords, guns, daggers, bullets, helmets, and god only knows what else. I have spent the intervening months going through all of this stuff and trying to make sense of it all. My father was, contrary to what you might think, given his profession, an incredibly gentle man. He was also someone who felt very deeply, but almost never expressed these feelings. So, I have been participating in that old cliche, going through my father's things, trying to know him.
The way my father saved things had very little rhyme or reason: other than his work items, which he cataloged quite carefully, boxes would have twist ties, old match books, and then one of my sisters' birth announcements. So going through all of this can be quite tedious at times. Fortunately, I am a complete vampire. Like my father, I have always been a night owl. I wait until everyone else has gone to bed, and then I work out, play my guitar, go online, clean, whatever. The house is mine, and mine alone. I have worked in restaurants for years, so this is natural to me. My dad did it because he and my mother were trapped in what I can only describe as a hideous marriage.
I should mention here that my father is probably the most intelligent person I've ever met. However, he is the classic scatterbrained genius. It was my mother who dealt with all of the day to day issues of keeping us in clothes, paying the bills, etc. But as his inability to be the classic Ward Cleaver father/husband became apparent to my mother, and she had to take all of this on, she became very hostile toward him, and all of us, frankly. So, rather than go to bed when she did, he stayed up. He wrote, read, went through all of his things.
My father was also one of the kindest people I've ever met. So, as my parents' marriage got worse, he stayed at work later and later. It's not too hard to work out: at work, he is very highly thought of, both for his massive intellect and his kindness. I should also point out that he was the boss in his office. And while there were superiors outside of the office itself, he was the director where he was. So in your work place, you are looked up to, and liked by nearly everyone, because of how you comport yourself. Then, you come home, where your wife beats you down, and as we got older, there were of course, problems with our behavior, growing up in the environment that we did. Who wouldn't stay longer at the office where you're the king, and the nice king, at that? People love you, and as you are very well thought of in your field, you are respected.
And then you come home to camp Reilly.
The way my father saved things had very little rhyme or reason: other than his work items, which he cataloged quite carefully, boxes would have twist ties, old match books, and then one of my sisters' birth announcements. So going through all of this can be quite tedious at times. Fortunately, I am a complete vampire. Like my father, I have always been a night owl. I wait until everyone else has gone to bed, and then I work out, play my guitar, go online, clean, whatever. The house is mine, and mine alone. I have worked in restaurants for years, so this is natural to me. My dad did it because he and my mother were trapped in what I can only describe as a hideous marriage.
I should mention here that my father is probably the most intelligent person I've ever met. However, he is the classic scatterbrained genius. It was my mother who dealt with all of the day to day issues of keeping us in clothes, paying the bills, etc. But as his inability to be the classic Ward Cleaver father/husband became apparent to my mother, and she had to take all of this on, she became very hostile toward him, and all of us, frankly. So, rather than go to bed when she did, he stayed up. He wrote, read, went through all of his things.
My father was also one of the kindest people I've ever met. So, as my parents' marriage got worse, he stayed at work later and later. It's not too hard to work out: at work, he is very highly thought of, both for his massive intellect and his kindness. I should also point out that he was the boss in his office. And while there were superiors outside of the office itself, he was the director where he was. So in your work place, you are looked up to, and liked by nearly everyone, because of how you comport yourself. Then, you come home, where your wife beats you down, and as we got older, there were of course, problems with our behavior, growing up in the environment that we did. Who wouldn't stay longer at the office where you're the king, and the nice king, at that? People love you, and as you are very well thought of in your field, you are respected.
And then you come home to camp Reilly.
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