Generic Fathers Day Quotes

I was never good at the future. I grew up with girls whose chief occupation was the future—designing it, instigating it. They could talk about it with so much confidence that it sounded like the past. During those talks, I had contributed nothing. I had visions, too abstract and flat for me to hang on to. For years I saw a generic city lit up at night. I would use those remote, artificial lights to soothe myself to sleep. One day I was quitting my job with no sense of exhilaration, one day I was leaving a note for my father, pulling out of his driveway, slightly bewildered, and two days later I was sitting in front of Howard. That was the way the future came to me. The vision that accompanied me on my drive was a girl, a lady actually. We had the same hair but she didn’t look like me. She was in a camel coat and ankle boots. A dress under the coat was belted high on her waist. She carried various shopping bags from specialty stores and as she was walking, pausing at certain windows, her coat would fly back in the wind. Her boot heels tapped on the cobblestones. She had lovers and breakups, an analyst, a library, acquaintances she ran into on the street whose names she couldn’t call to mind. She belonged to herself only. She had edges, boundaries, tastes, definition down to her eyelashes. And when she walked it was clear she knew where she was going.

Have you talked about how many children you’d like to have?” “Yes, sir,” Marlboro Man said. “And?” Father Johnson prodded. “I’d like to have six or so,” Marlboro Man answered, a virile smile spreading across his face. “And what about Ree?” Father Johnson asked. “Well, she says she’d like to have one,” Marlboro Man said, looking at me and touching my knee. “But I’m workin’ on her.” Father Johnson wrinkled his brow. “How do you and Ree resolve conflict?” “Well…,” Marlboro Man replied. “To tell you the truth, we haven’t really had much conflict to speak of. We get along pretty darn well.” Father Johnson looked over his glasses. “I’m sure you can think of something.” He wanted some dirt. Marlboro Man tapped his boot on the sterile floor of Father Johnson’s study and looked His Excellence straight in the eye. “Well, she fell off her horse once when we went riding together,” he began. “And that upset her a little bit. And a while back, I dragged her to a fire with me and it got a little dicey…” Marlboro Man and I looked at each other. It was the largest “conflict” we’d had, and it had lasted fewer than twelve hours. Father Johnson looked at me. “How did you deal with that, Ree?” I froze. “Uh…uh…” I tapped my Donald Pliner mule on the floor. “I told him how I felt. And after that it was fine.” I hated every minute of this. I didn’t want to be examined. I didn’t want my relationship with Marlboro Man to be dissected with generic, one-size-fits-all questions. I just wanted to drive around in his pickup and look at pastures and curl up on the couch with him and watch movies. That had been going just fine for us--that was the nature of our relationship. But Father Johnson’s questioning was making me feel defensive, as if we were somehow neglecting our responsibility to each other if we weren’t spending every day in deep, contemplative thought about the minutiae of a future together. Didn’t a lot of that stuff just come naturally over time? Did it really serve a purpose to figure it out now? But Father Johnson’s interrogation continued: “What do you want for your children?” “Have you talked about budgetary matters?” “What role do your parents play in your life?” “Have you discussed your political preferences? Your stances on important issues? Your faith? Your religion?” And my personal favorite: “What are you both going to do, long term, to nurture each other’s creativity?” I didn’t have an answer for him there. But deep down, I knew that, somehow, gravy would come into play.

Paul: That depresses you? Danny: Why wouldn’t it? I mean, if this kid is trying, but failing completely…. I mean, art is hard and he doesn’t have it, and doesn’t even seem to be trying. Paul: I try. Danny: I know, but there are no guarantees that you nor Zin will become great. I mean, you both are technically solid, at times, but you both need to wean off of my poetry. You need to differentiate into Paul and Zin. I mean, but even that is no guarantee. I mean. Look at all the people on Omniversica’s e-list. I mean, I’ve talked about it, and how real life intrudes and kills off artistic impulse. You told me Ben might not have continued writing had he not met you. Who knows what Jess would have done without me? Who knows if you’ll be writing in a decade? I mean, suppose you can only be good and competent. Would that satisfy? I mean, on the e-list there are people who can be great in one poem and then for another 200 poems write shit. There’s someone who wrote a great book length poem and now writes nothing. Another guy has great talent, took classes to get degrees in religion and now does little in art, because he runs an online marketing thing. Then there are those with talent who just stop and study shit. I told you about my pal who gave up art to become a sex researcher. Then there’s that girl who spent over seventy thousand bucks at an online university where a bad writer ‘teaches’ how to be a bad writer. I told you of that video Jess showed of a bad writer girl teaching others to be generic hacks. Others fuck up their lives via pregnancy. Others just grow up and forget art. You saw the work of the one guy who spent three years on a terrible book. Then he told me he was gonna craft Youtube videos. Now, he says he’s into trading cryptocurrency. And when we met he was a poet. Now he’s into Bitcoin. It’s so depressing. I think of the old folks from the Uptown Poetry Group- some are dead, others probably homeless or in mental institutions, and I told you about that guy who harassed all the women at the UPG? And he’s probably still thriving in business. And then my ex, Stacy Stafford, who’s now a New Age Christian scam artist. Jess rails about people who come to us only for help and do nothing to help us. I mean, think of a great poet like James Emanuel, and how I tried to help him, and now his stuff is almost forgotten, and the rights to his work are held by a little shit press that doesn’t even put out his work! And what about my old friend George Dickerson, the actor and poet? I did a few interviews about his excellent screenplay on his time as a diplomat in Lebanon and no one cares- even his son, a famed filmmaker in Finland- even that son refuses to do his father’s script. I mean, he has the name, the means, and the clout to get it made, and STILL George’s art is left to wither. And these people I contact for interviews? Most of them don’t even read a simple email! They ask if a Danny Wagner Video Interview is just audio or not? I mean, READ! People are so lazy, these days, it’s unreal. One cannot even read a lousy email! I mean- Paul: Yeah, it’s a shame. Danny: I’m not a magician. I can only guarantee that Jess and I will be great writers because only we are NOW and currently great. Others? Who knows? Some forget literature to do pop genres like sci fi or romance- maybe switch things up by writing about goblins. Others just quit altogether. I can’t make you nor Ben great. YOU have to do that, and I recall reading that excerpt you sent Jess of his book, where he wants money and to be a great artist, too, but by doing so parttime. That is not a good long term sign, but it is what it is. I can’t change people. I can’t change you. I can’t change Ben. I can’t change this Landon kid. I can’t even change Jess! I’m mortal.