Death of a visible man (Fraser)
This is an autobiographical account of a man who has been
left out of society. Set in his ways like the humble pilgrim, he must find his
way through the maze of bamboozling screens, letters that squiggle and that we
can’t quite see without our imaginary glasses what we've forgot at home, phone
contracts and the fallout of a long term relationship. A man from a generation
of grafters and schemers, where by hard work were that of physical attributes
and tangible achievements. This man, is Dad. This Dad is my Dad. Dad is Dad.
He’s nothing but Dad. And Dad being Dad, can’t quite adapt to being ‘Not so
much Dad any more’. Let me clarify what I’m talking about before I go any
farther. (See what I did there). Dad is the man who gives you that running push
on your bike as you wobble precariously down the park path, and, who applies
the plaster to your subsequent grazed knee. Dad is the chief who fashions your
sausage and mash into a ‘hedgehog’. But what happens to Dad when you finally
achieve your diploma in bike riding? Or when the hedgehog’ you used to consume
becomes politically incorrect? What happens, when you grow up? I’m not talking
about the new hairs that you can’t explain and make you feel self-conscious, or
the endless spot treatments and half cracked voices. I’m talking about the
forgotten Dad. What happens to a retired superhero? When your screens becoming
more touching that your physical relationships and the family that has
forgotten, or forsaken, the picturesque landscape of family bike rides and days
out in the sunny parks. (How touching) Gone are the days when children were
content with climbing trees and grazed knees. (Oh that rhymes). In some
respect, this may even become somewhat of a social commentary, of which stuffy
political commentators will refer to as they dam the generation they raised as
being anti-social, ultra-violent and self-obsessed. Or should that be ‘selfie obsessed’. The fact
that the word ‘selfie’ doesn’t have an underpinning red highlight or even meek
purple line, is a damming testament to this documentation and stuffy
observation. I digress. What I am meaning to do is to put you into a context. I
want to tell you the story/observation of my own Dad. The trials and
tribulations of the man that time simply forgot. That we all forgot. Maybe that
is going a bit too farther. I’m sure that there are many Dads right now who are
content with flicking through ipads, maybe even reading this very text with
that judgemental parental eye that is deemed a qualification of experience
after producing offspring. But what about those who cannot caress the screens
of delicately? This is the story of the invisible Dad.
I may begin with the rhetoric that the saddest time in any
parent’s life is when their precious darling finally decides to fly the coop.
Whether it be to university or prison, watching their youngsters meander into
the sunset is the hardest part of a parent’s life. Finally accepting that they
are no longer your baby, but of course, will always be your baby because he
will always come by to do their seasonal washing trip and scrounge the
occasional tenner or the occasional rent money off you so it will be like they
never left won’t it???? They never really grow up do they??? No they don’t!! Oh
no they don’t!! Is the hardest part of parenthood. They do grow up. They just
don’t change very much. Evidence of this? Myself of course. However, I disagree
with the current practise of parental guidance rhetoric. I see it as a polity
that can resolved to a pin point place in time. The saddest part of a parent’s
life is when your little darlings need you but don’t need you. When you are
tolerated in the confines of the communal areas of the established house, but
are unwelcome in others. Despite paying for and owning that room, its contents
and reproducing the new owner of these possession, you’re no longer welcome to
enter, touch, mess or handle such property as it becomes the property of MINE
and MY inc with chief executives ‘enter your little shit’s name here’. You see, when Dad first signed that dotted
line on that rough copy draft of a birth certificate, he willingly but
unwittingly, signed a contract that gave ownership and entitlement to
designated spaces within his current and future living occupations over to MINE
and MY inc, owned respectively by ‘enter your little shit’s name here’. Moreover, Dad subsequently agreed to forsake
all ownership of any and all necessary worldly possessions to MINE and MY inc
and is contractually obligated to continue this process until the sweet release
of death. Although the terms and
conditions of MINE and MY inc’s agreement are obscure and various, the
pre-conceptual notion of the right to ownership, as disclosed in the birth
right contact, of house hold commodities is an ever present factor in the
domestic. As such MINE and MY inc have a stake in everything of edible value.
WHO ATE MY CRISPS FOR MY LUNCH??tm. The trade marking is endless
and ingenious and can be applied to many other of your possessions. ‘STOP USING
WITH MY SPOT CREAM, I’M BLOODY SICK OF IT’[1].
Essentially, anything and everything your parents own is trade marked by MINE
and MY inc respectively. And that is what the current agreement in every house
hold inhabited by children and young adults ever. Ever ever. So this is what
Dad has become. The product of a shady contractually agreement that sounded too
good to be true. The fallacy of entitlement and ownership by MINE and MY inc is
unquestioned and unchallenged for the remained or his life.
But unlike last year’s family entertainment package, you can’t
simply call Raji from BT customer care to request a new one. A farther is for
life, not just for Christmas. Not just until you get bored of it or sick of it
or hate it. This is 1997’s finest dial up you can’t afford to replace. This is getting
a Myspace the day Facebook took over. It’s out of touch but you should love it.
This man is lost in translation. And while the screens slowly invade our lives
further, our vision becomes obscured by fart apps and tinder profiles, we
forget to see the death of a visible man. Right in front of our very screens we
see the family member splashed across Facebook come fathers and then forgotten
about for the rest of the year or until we need something. The man we roll our
eyes at, spread across the sofa watching Pawn-stars on Quest is no longer
really needed. The fallout of a thirty year relationship as a testament to the
past was the last glimpse of a life before redundancy. His world is slowly shrinking
because he can only function in the mind-set of ‘Super Dad’ whose CV boats achievement
of ‘teaching you to ride a bike, teaching you to swim, providing for your every
need unconditionally’. However we regret to inform you that your experiences
are not relevant to us. We thank you for taking an interest in our lives and we
will be in touch shortly when we need something.
