142
" I showed it to my mother, and after she finished reading, I burst out, “I feel so pure and so clean—I feel all emptied out,” just those words, without any embarrassment at all, and she said eagerly, “Oh no, I would think you would feel all filled up,” and I laughed, and didn’t volunteer information of that kind again, because after all it wasn’t necessary to tell your mother everything. A kind of stinginess, it seems to me now. “Is it ADD?” she asks me. “Your father gave you all ADD, you know.” Sensing that this is not entirely fair, she adds graciously, “And then I gave you ADD as well.” “Maybe,” I say, laughing again. It was true I always had trouble listening and remembering, trouble hearing people when they explained simple facts to me. When I read, my head seemed to go diagonal, and I swore I saw things in the sentences—not what I was supposed to see. When I read the words “moonlit swim,” I saw the moonlight slicked all over the bare skin. The word “sunshine” had a washed look, with the sweep of a rag in the middle of it. The word “violinist” was a fig cut in half. “String quartet” was a cat’s cradle held between two hands. “Penniless "
― Patricia Lockwood , Priestdaddy
146
" was an empty copper outline and “prettiness” seemed to glitter. “Calamity” was alarm bells, and in “aristocrat” there was the sharp triangle of a cravat, and in “sea serpent” one loop of the green muscle. It was as if I could read the surfaces of words, and their real hearts, but not their information. Even “word” had a picture—I saw a blond hostess in a spangled dress turning black and white letters over one by one. When I read, the meaning swam and the images leaped out and the words gave up their doubles. When I wrote, the same thing happened with the paper. “You start by thinking sideways,” I tell her. “First you sit in a sunlit room, and you look at the wall but really look through it, and you read your book but really read past it. "
― Patricia Lockwood , Priestdaddy
153
" Moms were very concerned about lightning at this point in history—I don’t know if it was part of the satanic panic or what. The way they talked about it, you’d think whenever it stormed, the sky turned into black leather and Satan started ripping open his shirt, and if the lightning touched you, it was with the devil’s finger on a genital you didn’t know you had. Lightning was sunlight played backwards, and moms hated it. The rule was that whenever the lifeguard heard even a rumor of thunder, we all had to get out of the pool for fifteen minutes so we wouldn’t be electrified. I considered this to be a great pity, as well as a blatant attempt to hamstring my genius. Dads didn’t care about lightning, because lightning was on the cover of all their favorite albums. Sometimes it was painted on their trucks as well. You could tell that if their kids were killed by lightning, they would be sad, but they would also feel superior about it for the rest of their lives, because it was without question the most hard-ass way for a child to die. “My son Rondy . . .” they would say, their voices trailing, “taken from us by pure electricity in the year Nineteen Hundred and Ninety . . . "
― Patricia Lockwood , Priestdaddy
157
" Catholicism, he saw at once, had more kings than he could ever keep track of. “What did those people teach you?” he asked me one night, mystified. “What exactly do Catholics believe?” I’d been preparing my whole life for this question. “First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he’s also dead, and he’s also immortal, but he’s also made of clouds, and his face is a picture of infinite peace, but he also always looks like one of those men in a headache commercial, because you’re causing him so much suffering whenever you cuss. He is so gentle that sheep seem like demented murderers in his presence, but also rays of sunlight shoot out of his face so hard they can kill people. In fact they do kill people, and one day they will kill you. He has a tattoo of a daisy on his lower back and he gets his hair permed every eight weeks. He’s wearing a flowing white dress, but only because people didn’t know about jeans back then. He’s holding up two fingers because his dad won’t let him have a gun. If he lived on earth, he would have a white truck, plastered with bumper stickers of Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin who is not a Catholic. "
― Patricia Lockwood , Priestdaddy