Part I -- Father, Good Godzilla

My father was a good man. At least he was to me. Tried to be, for me. Other people loved him too. (In the clip below, he's the one on the red tractor).



It was my mother who didn't always think so. Which was funny, because he was so charismatic when he was "out there". You know, saving the world with his smile. Maybe that's what it was, for my mom. Maybe what it was, for my mom, was that "smile" and everything behind it. It was like she had x-ray glasses, seeing the sockets of lightbulbs, the inner workings of clocks.



After a few years of marriage, a smile can cease to be a smile anymore. It can be-- well, you know, not fake-- not intentionally anyway. One can feel good and have legitimate problems. But I suppose, it can be a facade-- but only if what is beneath it is always left unexamined. Always swept under the rug, as-it-were.

Perhaps that is how it all began for him. My father, I mean. Most people don't examine what's under the rug for examination's sake. They look so that they can remove what is causing the uncomfortable bump in the floor. Right? Right? I think my father could see that my mother oftentimes got rather addicted to looking. Even when nothing was there. That was the rabbit in the hat for them. She became a hook for him to hang his coat on-- the all-encompassing thick, wool, black coat. The one with the hood. It was so easy for him to hang it on her. You see, he could sense in her this compulsive detective work. I think she seriously resented being his coat rack. But it was so easy for her to stand there, holding his coat for him. Her muffled protests coming up between the seams.