This song is dad leaving for a business trip and it’s all captured on grainy super-8 film even though that’s impossible, because who’s filming? Into the wood-paneled wagon and down the driveway. Only many years later do you wonder, was there any evil in those missing days? Another woman, or government dirty work? But of course that’s silly, if your father had skeletons then nothing makes sense. So you finish washing the dishes from the farafelle and chicken marsala you made last night for Eric. Eric the painter. Eric the triumphant East Village clotheshorse, perfectly niched. Completely in love with no one save himself…and you drive your heart repeatedly into that brick wall, sometimes cautiously, sometimes sobbing, out-of-control, but his ambition to make his mark on some sort of aesthetic continuum that will record his name for posterity and the smattering of graduate students who care is an imperviousness your efforts and chicken with mushrooms can never breach.