Time is a Toy: The Selected Poems of Michael Benedikt

For Gerald Fenichel (Who, “Way Back” in 1947, Lived “Way Back” in N.Y.C.)

163 for gerald fenichel (who, “way back” in 1947, lived “way back” in n.y.c.) Sometimes,duringperiodsof rapidchangeinourlives,wefindourselvessearching for meaning in the deep past: & remembering, & reflecting on, roots. —Psychology Today (1977) Suddenly, like a cloud of Wheaties Taking the shape of a boxing-glove, or a pickle That appears in a salad in the midst Of some perfectly ordinary & even uninteresting Lettuce-leaves, returneth Gerald Fenichel. I’ll tell you about aforesaid Fenichel Because otherwise it wouldn’t be serious Using his historically hoary and dignified Name like that; he was a distant relative Of Otto Fenichel, the famous psychologist. At this point I should also tell you two other things: Gerald Was a friend of mine from adolescence (We were in both public school & the boy-scouts Together; I’ll go back to the details later); & I just looked up Otto in Erick Berne’s famous Layman’s Guide to Psychiatry & PsychoAnalysis , & he was indexed on page 157, Except that there’s nothing about him on p. 157, Mr. Berne’s book is positively full of typos So I can’t tell you anything about this Otto Or understand my friendship with Gerald Via that background, so I’ll have to tell you (I’d really best do so; & so I’m sorry, Otto) Directly: Gerald & I were so-called “Friendly Enemies” So full of enmity we used to be blindfolded 164 & Beat each other over the head with boxing-gloves For the amusement of the scout-troop during meetings; & Then there was the terrible spectacle Of our wrestling each other every day after school; After which, we’d go to his house, & sit around & Watch what was to become the early history Of television, i.e., “Kukla, Fran & Ollie”; & On Tuesday nights, there was Milton Berle. You can’t get that kind of hot stuff from Berne Had his book been indexed properly, even; & You can’t get the flavor of my love for Gerald— & I think his for me—so that when we were fighting Each other, it was like making love, all that touching Under the guise of masculine competition, all that looking At television, which was also more like fighting Because it was then, looking at that little screen, that I felt so distant, so lost, so cut off...; Oh yes, come to think of it, you can get That flavor or feeling, just look for example at my old love poems about women They, or me, approaching then avoiding, touching & then withdrawing; Perhaps, in some sense, that’s all I’ve ever written about, —You, Gerald, probably a fat doctor or maybe some kind of head-shrinker, Because I think that was what you thought you were destined to be, Not (as some kids used to call it) a fat “Faggot,” which is also not what I’ve turned out to be Either; I don’t know exactly what I am now: “Mercifully Celibate” At the moment it would indeed seem to be;—but from where I am now 165 To wherever you may be, “Hail & Farewell,” Fenichel; —Next time I’m in New York I’ll look you up in the phonebook Or consult the A.M.A. for your name; & so maybe even if you’re not there You somehow will be & so we’ll meet for a beer, & argue over One or two points, perhaps; & it will be like old times. [Boston, Nov., 1977] ...