The Enzonian Ether
23 January 2014
Hi. Probably I don’t know how to write in this diary anymore. But, notes from last week:
Teresa after the 49er’s game: “It’s a good thing I had to be mature about it because I wanted to run outside and find a car and smash in the windows with a baseball bat. And then turn it over and light it on fire.” I think she meant a car with Seahawks indicia—but maybe just any car.
Enzo hasn’t thrown up again, at school or anywhere else. But yesterday he said, “I think I need Spicy Hot Cheetos in my lunch. To block the barf. It makes a fiery wall.”
I also want to record that Enzo is scared of the dark and scared of Bigfoot, who, he concedes, is 90 percent not real. He sleeps with a wooden sword, a big stick that he calls his staff, and a Nerf semi-auto with a bin of ammo. Yesterday when he took his bath, he brought his Nerf gun into the bathroom and set it carefully on the counter, not to play with—it never got wet—but “for protection.”
Teresa asked Enzo what they did for Main Lesson at school. “We made a gun. And shot it.”
Driving Enzo to school today: “When I turn eight, I am going to watch my favorite horror film of all time: Jaws.” My note says “film” not “movie,” and I think that’s reliable. I would never say or write “film” (god forbid) so it must have come from him, and he probably got it from Velma on Scooby Doo. It sounds like her. Often I can’t take my notes right away, and I wonder how much gets lost in those intervals, or, worse, added. But, I hope I’m permeated enough by the Enzonian Ether to reproduce him accurately. There’s always that danger with pets or children—that you make them into an extension of your own ego, as if you, your very self weren’t bad enough.