Remember Me As A Time of Day
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On a day most assuredly as benign as the one to follow, on a day where things have come to pass, permit me to leave you with a thought…
When I die and the tolls have been paid to the Boatman of Never Never, causing my soul to leave this fleshly body and rejoin the ocean of consciousness that you may call Heaven, please remember me. But not as a man, or even as an idea, but as a time of day…
That brief period in the morning when the ground is lush with the moisture of the air. When it is neither light nor dark, but a dusky peaceful gray with rays of hope creeping up from behind the horizon. That wondrous moment when the air is so crisp it almost hurts to breathe too deeply, but you crave the sweet nectar of atmosphere with an automatonic obsession you could never describe and willfully consume without hesitation.
Its that time of day when the deer are softly trotting through the trees: both together and so clearly apart, scouring the green earth for hope. When the air hangs over your head as a nebulous haze and you want to believe that today will be a better day. And you exhale, only to see the workings of your body join the fog around your head. And you know…
Today will be a better day.
Yes, when I pass, remember me. But do not remember the man, or even the idea…remember the time you first felt wonder…in this world so unsure…like when I was a boy camping with my father and the pale yellow of sunlight on a cold November morning and the shuffle of deer in the wilderness beyond made me hope….
That today would be a better day.
The Paradox Of Progress
I’m sitting out on my porch with my laptop. Or is it notebook..? Marketing…it’s so passe.
The other night while sharing drinks with a friend we stumbled upon an important topic. The conversation began as benign as any other; between gulps of pale liquors we talked about our lives as they stand a year after graduating from college, for this particular night was the anniversary of my clumsy stroll in cap and gown down the aisles of adulthood. We exchanged vagueries and platitudinal congratulations at our decency and successes, but their was an anxiety haunting our words that was apparent. We both knew something wasn’t exactly right. The only question was who would voice this disquietude first…
And it would be him.
He took a big splash of beer and wiping his mouth he uttered the words that would launch our beautiful conversation. He said that he feels like he works only to work. He works to buy gasoline, so he can drive to work. He works to buy nicer clothes, so that he can dress for the job he wants, not the job he has. He felt everything he did simply perpetuated everything that he did, an eternal circle of labor and means to labor without meaning.
I agreed, without question. Sometimes as I drive, mostly at night when the city streets are peppered in halos and neon lights, I think, “How did it come to this..?” This concrete cage that we have shackled ourselves to without thought to what it does to our basic humanity–so much hidden beneath the pavement and stone, a world in which we once belonged that resonates with the racial memory passed down by our forefathers. In this system we work and toil only to support a lifestyle in which we feel both entitled to and are desperately dependent upon. We live in a vat of consumerism and material lust, feeding intravenously upon the ease of our own lifestyle. Assuring ourselves that we are progressing, hurtling through time and space and advancing every step of the way until finally one day we reach the apotheosis of a new age.
But this dream is built upon a lie.
I remember attending a class in my senior history seminar in which we were discussing historiography, the history of history. We were discussing various topics, bouncing through the entirety of western history with little regard to linearity or causality–an exercise in postmodern deconstruction if there ever was one. And somehow we found ourselves on the topic of the American Constitution as a historical object, an undeniable truth in the amorphous blob of our own nation’s history. One student commented on how the Constitution, that beautiful undeniable object, failed to address the issue of slavery, which had a causal effect that reverberated through time and eventually caused our Civil War. During the discussion someone made an offhand comment about how narrow-minded and bigoted the authors of the Constitution were, to which I immediately responded that they were truly revolutionary. The very idea of a republican government, where the people voted for leadership and representation, was remarkable, even if their conception of who was worthy to vote was not egalitarian.
“Victims of their time,” I said, “You cannot judge them on values we hold today, society has progressed a great deal since then.”
My professor smiled, that wry quiet smile of a man without a care in the world. He walked to his chalkboard and drew a straight line. Turning back to face us, he asked me if I had to place today’s society and that which existed during the revolutionary era on this continuum where would I place them. I was baffled and asked him for a bit of clarity to aid in my answer. With that same quiet smile, which hid so many truths I cannot begin to tell you, he told me that the word “progress” infers a direction, an end result that is one day, or at one time, achieved. So if we’re progressing, to where are we headed, and where do these different places in time fit upon the great line?
I stumbled a bit. I told him that I understood the point, but things have changed. We have more things. We are more equitable, more tolerant. He simply responded, “Are we?” I fell silent as he returned to the chalkboard and took the straight line and formed a circle. He said nothing more.
It stuck with me, and that night sharing beers with a good friend, bemoaning the cyclical hustle of our lives I found the great truth he was sharing that day. We aren’t progressing, because the very idea of progress within society is a paradox. We erect new pillars of civilization and with a final sigh of the collective voice we whisper, “Progress,” having achieved little in the advancement of the human spirit.
In the end of all things progress doesn’t exist. Processed foods, cell phones, and the internet are not progressions of the human condition, but components in a system of delusion, which make slaves out of us all. Working to deliver processed foods, working to sell and run cellular connections, working to run servers and dotcoms–working for what? The maintenance of the system, a vicious cycle of fruitless labors and material needs. Had society not “progressed” so far as to require a cheap work force to labor in the cotton fields, there wouldn’t have been a slave trade. Had society not “progressed” so far as to require people to sell computers, there wouldn’t be a headset and a cubicle for me to waste away in. An eternal circle of labor and means to labor without meaning.
I often tell my friends that maybe here in the West we haven’t gotten it quite right. In 500 years New York City will be unrecognizable and may not even exist in a way that we can imagine–progress–but the same rice paddies that have existed for thousands of years in Vietnam will still be tended by small children in conical hats, the same as their fathers and their fathers before them.
There is something pure and wondrous about those rice fields in Vietnam. In some ways, I think they are more civilized and “human” than we could ever be. Just a man, his family, and the means to survive the day. Laboring with value and character.
But I should really rest, it’s getting late, and I have computers to sell… how else am I going to afford this website..?
Progress.
On The Prospect Of Change
I hate when people tell me I have “changed.”
Throughout my life that is the one comment that has always made my blood boil. The anger that it creates in me is unrivaled by any back-handed insult or petty exchange. The hurt that it causes throughout my whole body is more than emotional, it is physical and real. My entire being throbs and I want to discard the individual whose hollow mouth exhaled such an injustice into the world.
I find the comment willfully ignorant and selfish. Those who cast such charges against me betray their own deficiency in understanding the real me, the man behind it all, the small boy whose all grown up and still feels the way he felt about life and his place on earth. It makes me doubt that they ever knew me at all, and I believe that is why it hurts so much.
I am janus-faced. I am a multitude of people wrapped in a thin veil of flesh. I am the life of the party, a social butterfly that you would swear was never an awkward caterpillar. This me always had wings, never suffering from the unsure creep of its causal predecessor. I am a quiet loner, much happier by myself and kept busy only with the streams of consciousness flowing through my mind. This me likes thinking and analyzing various metaphysical ideas, and then analyzing my previous analysis–a never ending cycle of assumptions, assertions, and doubt. I am the best friend you ever had, a minute away if you needed anything. This me lives to make your life better, an ear always open and a hand never unwilling to help. I am distant and cold, living off the moment I exist within and not caring much for those who I cannot see or feel outside the bounds of their general wellbeing. This me loves you and needs to know you’re alright, but does not need anything more to be happy.
I’ve been struggling lately with friends from another life. A life in which every weekend was free and neither began nor ended, simply extended on indefinitely. This life was college–the least amount of responsibility and the most amount of freedom we will all ever experience. These friends from this past life have been hurt by the aspect of my personality that is absorbed heavily in the life I live now: eleven hour work days and split days off, ten to nine, friday and sunday off. The eternal weekend supplanted by the eternal hustle. This is my professional life.
They scoff and moan, insisting that I’ve changed. I have not, but my life has. I am no longer a minute away, no longer unshackled and free. I am confined and controlled. I have obligations and responsibilities that I would die to forget. I miss them all, but that isn’t enough. They don’t want to accept that I live an extremely different lifestyle than even they do in their own professional lives. Eight to five with weekends off sounds like a vacation to me.
I wish they could understand, but I believe they choose not to, instead opting for passive aggressive assaults on my character. “He’s changed.” How could I not in some degree? How can another year of life not somehow create in me new multitudes of men, all new and shaped from the unique experiences in which only I have endured. Yet at my core I am the same as I always was. I am still the person you love and grew to call “friend.” Is it so hard to see?
Change does not frighten me, because I know that it will only amend the already ambiguous cloud that is my personality. As a child I loved history, and girls, and the idea of love, and freedom, and pickles, and all the stupid little things that still make my day. All the things that will always make my day.
On the most fundamental level we don’t ever truly change from who we are; we just wear the different faces that the world paints upon us. I understand that and still love you all deeply, though you have changed in your own ways. But if you cannot accept the me that you once did, when only circumstance and prospect has changed, then I cannot stand next to you any longer.
It’s not a threat. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s just something that isn’t going to happen.
An Average Day For Average Men
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I wake up late from a night out with friends, still drunk from another night at the mausoleum of our fortunes. I do not have time to shower, and I’m out of deodorant. A quick sniff test reveals the bland mix of dull cigarette smoke and the previous day’s must, and it must suffice. Changing into clothes whose fresh scent hide my own biological soup, I dart out of the door. There is simply not enough time.
But there is always time for cigarettes. Wheeling around corners and sending my maniac green machine forward, I make a quick stop at the gas station. I walk in and before I can utter a word, the woman behind the counter pulls a pack of Turkish Silver loose from its plastic prison. Everyday I walk in, and everyday she is here. It is beyond routine. Its pathetic. I slide seven dollars over the counter, for I know the price, and turn without saying another word or bothering with my change (37 cents to be exact…)
I feel as if I’ve just done something wrong.
I speed to work, lost in thought and the reverberating sound of horns emanating from their digital prison within my dashboard. The streetlight manifesto of my life.
Manning the phones is automatic. Control, alt, delete. Enter password. Throw the headset around my neck. Lock, stock, and ready to roll.
The phone rings. And so it begins.
They offered a free catered lunch at work, but I longed to be alone. To be everywhere but here, so I left without saying a word. Again, I felt as I had done something wrong. But my crime was only discourteous in nature.
I went to a fast food restaurant and as I waited in line I noticed that the manager was interviewing a middle-aged woman. She looked like someone’s mother: round and caring, with the chiseled lines of so many smiles and even more frowns. As I waited I tuned in intently to their conversation.
The manager sat across the small booth from her. A portly fellow. If it usually sat four, with him two was just cozy enough. He waved his arms about in grand fashion, gently tossing her application back and forth–the single sheet which in 8×11 summed up the working history of an entire human being. He was condescending and pedantic, using flowery language to ask the most debasing questions…
“What would you say the incentives are for you to take on this job?”
To fulfill my dream of wearing a cardboard hat and an ill-fitting shirt while serving people food that will slowly kill them…she seemed to say…
He told her that he would hire her, but “there is one caveat.” Such a beautiful word belongs no where near this conversation, but alas, he warned her that he could only pay her $6.75 an hour.
She nodded affirmatively as she had the whole time. A desperate woman and the man throwing her scraps, enjoying his pathetic position of power over her. It was sick. Human life only worth $6.75 an hour, and her gleefully sopping it up.
I wanted to take her by the hand and walk her out into the world and release her from this servitude. She was worth more. I swear she was worth more. But she will start this Sunday, black slacks and black shoes are required. She said she would have to buy some…
I returned to work and after the initial round of “where’d you go’s” I settled back into my pilot’s seat. Control, alt, delete. Enter password. Throw the headset around my neck. Lock, stock, and ready to roll.
And the phone rings. So it begins again.
My first call of the second half was from a sweet old lady. She was interested in a computer, for she would have much time at home in times not yet passed. She was dying. Although she did not let on the nature of her impending twilight, she was quiet and sad when speaking of it. She wished to discover the internet and email. She wanted to share pictures of her newborn grandchild with her friends who had braved the great binary highway years ago, leaving her behind to betas and 8-track cassettes. Her name was beautiful, like hepatica dying to grow in dark corners. Her pain was slow motion, like the same flower reaching for the lonely ray of light which cuts through the gloom. I set her up and hit release, sending her off into the world. Alone. And dying.
I was forced to work an hour of overtime in the morning, and was slated for one in the evening. But five minutes before the arduous extra hour was to begin I was released from my servitude and sent home to thank the gods of both occupation and relaxation for such a welcome reprieve.
I smelt bad. The fresh scent of clean clothes faded fast in the heightened intensity of my heat. I decided to swing by the store and pick up some freshness, because society told me that I was intolerable, although I was quite comfortable.
As I drove, I saw a bicyclist standing over a wrecked bike. His knees bloody and head hanging. Holding a broken wheel in one hand, he looked disgusted. I wondered how far he’d have to walk to get to wherever he called home.
And I drove on.
I grabbed a stick of deodorant and was checked out by a cheeky female with a robotic voice. A human sound to such an inhuman device. I looked around and noticed the lines forming at these automated checkout contraptions while check-out lanes with clerks remained empty. I thought, “To what lengths we go to simply be alone…”
I snatched my receipt and left. Lighting my last cigarette, having killed the entire pack throughout the day, I realized how fast I am killing myself. I thought about stopping for another pack, but the thought offended me and my sense of biological existence.
I drove passed the same biker, still staring at his wreckage with the same look of disgust, so far from home…
And I drove on, with everything numb.
Just an average day for an average man. Routine, solitude, and sharing in the misery of others.
Damn, I wish I had a cigarette.
Down At Mephisto’s Cafe
The other night I went out to get some drinks with a couple friends. We went to our usual spot, a dirty dive off Lake Austin Boulevard. The scene is simple as these scenes typically are. Long faces and longer moods. From time to time I would think that this is a place where people come to die, drowning their sorrows in a mug or in a plume of illegal smoke and finding solace only in the companies of others’ misery. Its our place, but in so many ways we are the pulse of such a dead locale, our youth and happiness evening out the air of indignity and malaise.
Yet on this particular night, I was caught in the great sepulture. It began when I went to the bathroom, having broken the Seventh Seal I needed greatly to relieve myself. In times passed I had read the inane scribbles upon the wall, here and there picking up pieces of poetic greatness from scribes whose name will never be known. But on this day I found myself reading an august dirge dedicated to a man I will never know, a man I could never possibly know–for he was long dead. The author’s words sang out the memories of a dear friend. His elegy upon the bathroom wall was the only fitting eulogy for such a loyal fellow patron.
The whole thing saddened me. A man reduced to lavatory remembrance. A life nothing more than Sharpe upon old walls, which shield the masses from the obscene scene of our biological soliloquies. I wanted to touch the great message, but common sense forbade such a personal moment in these halls, so I departed–a bit less human.
I turned the corner and approached the bar. Only another pitcher could calm these feelings of pity and sadness. I sat on the edge staring blankly as the bartend served others. I looked down the row, long faces and longer moods. A somber cold piercing the tired men, lining up for another gulp of Mephisto’s brew. I forced myself to look away, to find anything but the mass of walking dead in front of me, and my eyes found a photograph pinned up on the wall behind the bar. A man, shirtless, enjoying a bright afternoon out to sea on a boat. His gay smile almost made me forget how exhausted his body looked. His skin hung loosely off his bones and betrayed the golden glow of a working man, for on this day he was a proletariat at play. I noticed writing above the photograph and I squinted my eyes tightly to bring them into focus…
“John Vosacote August 17th, 1947 - September 12th, 2007″
This man was dead. And possibly all that remained of him was this dank photograph, tucked sweetly above the beer taps and mugs. I thought of my dead friend in the bathroom and wondered if it was this man’s panegyric that I had read.
I noticed that there was writing below the picture and again I pulled my lids sharply together to make out the sacred glyphs…
“Gone fishin’.”
In those two words I learned so much about the man, this dead John Vosacote. Maybe he loved the sea. Maybe he loved to fish. Maybe he simply died that day out on the blue waters, under bluer skies…
I stared at his photograph and saw in him the life which evaporates from us all, radiating out from the creases of a smile that’s long ceased. I remembered the sad words from earlier, and the sad words I had read in the past in more decent settings. We all live so fiercely and with little regard for the aftermath, but in the wake of our departure there is suffering, even if it can only be expressed with Sharpe pens and frameless photos. I sat there, on a bar stool that so many had sat on before, and I realized that if you live the right way and do right by people, there will always be a place for you. The entire experience reaffirmed my belief that memory is the most eternal thing we possess.
Yes, if you live a good life, there will always be a place for you…you will always have a “home…”
I only hope mine isn’t on the bathroom wall of Deep Eddy Cabaret.
But hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
The Shadow of Angels
Hmmm…where to begin..? They say context possesses the greatest illuminative property, and who am I to disagree with orthodoxy?
And no, that wasn’t sarcasm for a welcome change.
I remember the first day we met, which by now I’m sure you know is something quite special as my memory may not be the mightiest of my gifts. I walked into the first day of class late, because I believe in setting the tone early for the semester. I was half asleep, head hanging and feet shuffling. I saw an open seat by you and I figured why not?
Our professor had us fill out name plates. Seniors in college on the verge of the fabled real world, and I find myself writing “ELLIOTT G.” in large block letters with a colored marker. A victim of my era, I glanced your way to procure a name for a later facebook search. Needless to say I was interested, but when am I not? We both know this.
Class was a mixture of children’s games and spoon fed classroom rules. We would break them all. Well, mostly me…
I remember the first time I was able to talk with you. The well-placed questions to feel out your situation. It was not long until I discovered the bane of our chemically-ordained attraction: boyfriend, eight years and going. Welcome to frienddom, my friend. I told myself that I would be good, that I would respect this obviously powerful union. I was comfortable being your friend immediately, as we had so much in common. I let it all hang out: the good, the bad, and the ridiculously obnoxious. I had nothing to lose. I had friends, and if you didn’t like me, well, what was the damage?
And we became close. Really close. I confided in you the darkness which haunts me, the afflictions of my soul, and you provided not only an ear to listen, but heartfelt and honest advice, even criticism, which for whatever reason never offended me. You fell right into the circle of my life. My friends became yours, and slowly our burgeoning friendship grew into the things of life long camaraderie. It was all I could ask for.
The day you were engaged to be wed was a true shock to my system. I had longed for her, the dream of my youth and its appeal to every aspect of my fantastic persona. But the day you called me to report such wondrous news it did indeed sadden me. I replayed it all over in my head a thousand times. I thought back to the day I told you, as we left my apartment on some grand mission only the two of us could ever complete, that maybe, in another universe, we would be a good team. You smiled, a sad and quiet smile, and walked on ahead.
My heart, as unfocused as my mind, would bounce from the girl of my youth and our possibilities to the very possibility of you and I. It was a fleeting thought, as they usually are. But the weight of your impending marriage was a heavy load for me to carry. I remember scoffing at your engagement ring: insulting and condescending. “Gaudy,” I seemed to say with a jovial toss of my hand. I was aching, with the questions I am prone to ask myself in times of helplessness. It hurt, but we had always been friends, and even when I played with the idea, I immediately cast it into the bows of the “forever-no,” alongside my dreams of walking on the moon and flying with pigs.
I thought this was just another moment of self-doubt and regret. I’ve had them before, especially with women. The kind of failure I am far too familiar with. But I had done nothing. Nothing but be a good and honest friend and let the chips fall where they may. I had pledged to respect your relationship and I had, to my inquisitive heart’s dismay.
But the day you called me to tell me you two had amicably split, I was secretly elated. I had my demons to exorcise–the girl of Christmas past and fantastic futures I had envisioned a thousand times. But I was so secretly happy. I felt for the first time that maybe that other universe we had spoke of outside my apartment may someday exist.
And she came to visit me, the girl of my childhood, the girl who had been woven so delicately into my life. And every waking moment I compared her to you. The way she smiled at my jokes. The way she reacted to my casual touch. The way she mingled with my friends and cohorts. Everything had a standard and that standard was so clearly you. She spent a week with me; a long week without you. I remember sneaking messages to you. The most benign “how are you’s?” a man could write to the girl he was realizing he loved so dearly.
She left and I felt like a weight have been lifted off my shoulders. The shackles had been cut. I had been walking in the shadow of an angel and had never fully realized its wondrous light until now. You were right. You were right for me. And you were finally free.
And now you are mine. And I love you so much sometimes it hurts to think it took so long to end up together…
But I do not regret the long road we traveled to find one another. I find it necessary. We had to become friends, the best of friends, and flesh out the most revolting and most amazing aspects of one another to truly fall in love. You know me better than anyone; you know the full me. I let it all hang out, because I had nothing to lose at first. And you didn’t recoil, you accepted it all with open arms and gave me compassion and love in return for nothing. Now I can give you something, my love and my gift…the gift I wanted so badly to give.
I think it all happened for a reason. Eight year boyfriends and girls from a past life, all keeping us at bay and giving us an opportunity to find each other’s real value, preventing us from making mistakes that would shortchange an obviously good thing.
I’m not sorry about anything I’ve ever done, and you certainly aren’t. Even if you were, you wouldn’t have to be.
Together.
In context.
And I couldn’t be happier.
We Are The Few, Those Who Fight Further
Venom.
I used to spray venom.
I hated you. I hated your beliefs, your petty arguments, and your stupid feelings. You justified everything with an emotion. You rationalized the most irrational thoughts and behaviors with whatever whimsical fodder that the gray matter within your skull conjured at that moment. You annoyed me to no end.
You still exist. You work with me. You walk the streets. You walk around with a “Vote Hope” shirt or consider yourself a Born Again McCainiac. Sheep.
You are the American Voter.
You line up on television in your stiff collared shirt, sport coat, and American flag lapel. You spew a mindless ideology that does not see right or wrong, but right and left. You denigrate the “other side” whenever they have a good idea based simply on the letter next to their name.
You put bumper stickers on your car so everyone can see the brand upon your back…
“Hillary ‘08.”
“Change You Can Believe In.”
“100 more YEARS!”
I have lost my will to fight the tide. Take me now, in a wave of your stupidity, inundate and inculcate me with contempt and shortsightedness. I am ready. Arms spread and eyes squeezed tight. Wisp me away to a world of black and white, of simple bigotries…
Just promise to make it quick.
But the tide will never come, will it? And my venom will no longer afflict you. I have transcended you.
Because I am one of the few. I see the media for what it is…paid military “analysts” and liberal blow-hards spewing ideology and recycling sound bytes until my eyes and ears bleed from repeated assault on my intellect. I see you for who you are, an animal of man scraping by on whatever your barely sentient brain happens to absorb.
There are many of us. Out there. Spread amongst the rank and file cattle. We look like you, but within the silence of our thoughts we plot and plan. Should the revolution begin, we will be wearing masks of anonymity and throwing molotov cocktails at the stormtroopers. We will paint the walls of our cities in propaganda. We will stand together against the evils of men; men themselves. And should it come crashing down, should all hope vanish, we will fight further.
Until we either stamp out the great beast and its flock of sheep-skinned men, or until every last one of us is revealed to the world, as the Machine rips our veils off and the warmth of light graces the faces of the few.
We are the few, those who fight further.
Yes, the venom has been saved. But the hate lingers on. Fire the first shot, give me a sign, and we will show the world the meaning of liberty…
On the Purpose of Material Existence…
It’s late. I sit outside in the cool morning air, a cigarette warming my mouth and drying my eyes. The wind is wisping through the trees, creating a melody as the leaves snap and flutter. The chorus of our earth. I often sit and wonder what all of this means…
I find the question overwhelming, it sometimes feels irrational to even pose. How could I understand the world? I try to refine the question…to find a starting point that will somehow lead me to the answer, to the thread that once pulled will unravel the great mystery before my eyes. My mind races from the big bang, both cold and material and radiant and divine, and spin endlessly with the curling of the galaxies into their beautiful nebulous shapes. My thoughts bounce from particle to particle as they begin to coalesce and form planets. A blue dot appears before the mind’s eye, a blip on the cosmic scale, and I find myself home on the birth place of this humanity–Earth. I see the entirety of evolution, as simple organism grow into the beastly kings of our world. And man rises from the ashes of this genesis to anoint himself ruler, both benevolent and terrible.
I see it as God’s plan. I see no plan at all. I see the Messiah. And I see no one at all.
I reach for any vestige of beginning…
And right before I seem to find it, I see it all end. The universe is torn apart, ripped limb from limb by the very forces from which it was created. Beautiful clouds of life and marvel collapse upon themselves until what once was is reduced to seemingly nothing. But something still exists; it could almost be called a moment, for nothing that we know of this physical world could compare. It is the tiniest of objects, but within it every ounce of energy and the infinity of time lie dormant, until whether by cold automation or divine direction it explodes, unleashing the gift of life for a new chance, a new hope.
And it all begins again, in a big bang of rebirth.
Is this the first universe? The fifth? The billionth? Where do I fit into this cosmic scale of destruction and resurrection? My life, and the lives of all who have walked this gorgeous blue sphere, may be nothing more than a notch in the belt of miracles that this cycle so flippantly engenders.
As a boy I used to think how fantastic it was that every ancestor of mine met, for their tales of love and lust eventually led to my existence. But now, in search of the great answer, I cannot help but think how infinitesimal that is in comparison to the idea that this may be one of many universes and that, for years I could never count, had to go a certain way for our blue earth to sit upon the black of space for any of this to even have a chance. I find myself lost in the sea of this reality. I find myself completely alone, although the materials that comprise my body may have once been stars or life I couldn’t ever imagine.
Its all so finite. Yet feels so entirely infinite.
I look to God for comfort, for nothing here can quench this thirst for purpose. I believe He exists to facilitate that role. Without the idea of God, how can we possibly cope with the smallness of our lives? Or its utter pointlessness? When the answers allude me, when all rational thought is lost in the expanse of all-time, I find peace in one great power, that for delightful whim or wanton cruelty has created everything before me, everything in me, and everything my dust will become.
Can we escape the end? Not as individuals, but as a people, as species, borne into this particular universe..? Yes, I reach for a vestige of beginning, but all I see is the prospect of an end. Can we escape this fate? Can we escape God’s judgment? For when it is cast, there will be nothingness.
Nothing but that moment. When everything is possible again. When every dream is latent and consciousness is but a soft whisper resonating within the smallest of creations.
I have hope. I think that we will live forever in the forms and shapes of our future. I think within the 3.1 billion character DNA code within us all the past is written. A letter from the million worlds before us, sharing their triumphs and failures. Grand stories of their towers that reached the skies, and their eternal search for an answer. And if we are doomed, the next to inhabit a wayward planet of translucent blue will carry us within them, as we have carried so many that have come before within us.
If I should have one wish, it would be the write my own passage in the genetic structure of their lives. I would tell them to not be afraid, to live for every moment, to believe in a purpose to everything. I would give them the hope I feel for the eternity of the human race through them. And I would simply ask them to remember, if they ever could, this voice which on this night called out to them, to all, and in a sea of loneliness found peace in the way of things.
Call it God. Call it love. Call it whatever you like. We will live on. We will never die. If only for a moment…
The Wounded Shall Advance Into Light…
Where to begin…
The future sounds right.
I lived with a dream my entire life. No. I was living a dream my entire life. We were together, as fate had preordained from the first moment this universe came into existence. I was the youngest boy when I met you, and it had taken me a lifetime to find you…to place you where you so inextricably belonged. But I did it. We did it. Yes, baby, we finally did it.
And the future was so bright. The world paled in the radiance of our glow. For all purposes we were the world…you had always been my world. We married. You looked amazing in your dress–your blue eyes piercing through me during your descent into matrimony at your father’s side. And there were children, blessed with the names we had chosen so long ago. A future so warm that heaven seemingly had found earth, and we were to share it with the few and fortunate.
This amorphous future, with no concern for where and when–only you and I, was all I lived for. I lived for this dream of us.
This dream was so deeply rooted in our past.
The past.
The passed.
We have passed.
Humbly. And with little fight.
The curtain has been called on that once bright future.
And I am left without a dream.
I feel alone, alone in the world I once knew led to you. I feel naked, stripped of the warmth of our possibilities, of our never ending possibilities… Alone and naked. I fear I will freeze in this cold universe, without a soul to whisper my last words.
And at my last moment should I be blessed with an ear to listen I will assuredly say…
…
Nothing. Because we live for dreams.
Forget The Platitudes, I’ve Got Platforms!
So If I were President…
Iraq Policy: The war in Iraq has divided us. It has done irreparable damage to the triumphalist narrative which has guided us from the conquest of the frontier through the “Good War” of the 1940s. What Korea and Vietnam began, this war in the sands of Iraq has completed: the sewing of a narrative of defeat. Through this war we have lost faith in our ability to triumph. There will be no new children’s games in the vein of the Iraqi conflict, for Cowboys and Indians will dominate our youth for yet another century. There will be no fantastic movies portraying the great American victory, for none exists. It is time my people, my children indeed, to decide. I leave it to you. Within three weeks we will vote. Not the Congress, for their failure is complete. But you, your loved ones, our men and women overseas–yes, we will all vote. A referendum to invoke popular will. The choice is simple: stay indefinitely and attempt to fix the situation or leave immediately. For there can be no other option. I am bound to you and your voice. Let me hear it. Let it ring loudly and with the triumphant spirit of the American way. I am your servant…allow me to serve your will…
Foreign Policy at large: The age of American Empire is over, and I will be its executor. We currently have troops on the ground of 130 of the 191 countries of the world. It costs you, us, over one trillion dollars a year to manage this imperial force, and today it ends. I am pulling troops out of old Cold War hot spots. Hot spots…the name infers heat, conflict, and trouble. For there is no trouble any longer. The age of antagonism in the Middle East and around the world ends now! We together will usher in an era where all world leaders are welcome into our home and to sit at our table to discuss the prosperity of all nations. No longer will non-democratic, Muslim, or Communist regimes be met with hostility. For not every one is American, and we should feel extremely privileged that we can claim as such. You are special–for we are the Shining City Upon a Hill, and our greatness will no longer be spread by violence and at the point of a gun, but by trade, openness, and a basic understanding of our goodnesses place within the world. We will come home, we will defend our borders and respect the integrity of this nation from invasion and undocumented immigration. We will come home, and we will spend our monies on roads, and food, and public works, and we shall return our house to the greatness it once was. The age of American Empire is over, and we will all stand before the warmth of the next century with no enemies, no entangling alliances–and we will show the world the true quality of our character.
Civil Liberties: The age of legislating our morality shall end. I will veto any normative judgment upon your life. I will elevate judges who respect civil liberties above all else. Your body is your temple, and you possess the unalterable right to improve and destroy it. If you choose to use drugs, then so be it. The War on Drugs and its wasteful spending and unreasonable and unjust incarcerations end today. I will attempt to decriminalize all drugs in the United States and if the Congress fails to acquiesce than I will dismantle the Federal Agencies that execute the laws on the books. It ends. If you so choose to sell your bodies, than please proceed, for your body is the property of no one but yourself, and certainly no government. If you choose to marry a person of the same sex, then I say so be it. Find a Church, be wed, and live an amazing life. You do not exist to serve this government, or to fear it…your choices are your own. Simply do not harm others or infringe upon their right to act freely and we will all live as we are, not as we are made to be.
Taxation: I am closing the IRS. The income tax will no longer be collected. Your work is your property and I will not allow our government to waste your labors. With the end of American Empire and the War on Drugs we will surely be fine, as the income tax only collects around a trillion dollars a year. Fear not, your roads will be serviced, your utilities will remain on. I am giving you back what is yours. The age of Government Ownership ends. You are not a wage slave; you exist as a freeman and I will return you to such heights of celestial madness. Our government will exact taxes as the Constitution clearly outlines and we will prosper. I do not own you; we do not own you–or your work.
Abortion/Capital Punishment/Euthanasia: Without the right to life, there exists no other right. I support the abolition of both state-sponsored abortion and termination. The federal government will no longer contribute to any destruction of life. No dollar will destroy an infant’s life. No dollar will send toxic fluids into the arm of a citizen. It is a hard decision for me, my children. Those convicted of heinous crimes sometimes deserve to be expelled from our society. They have rejected our goodness and have embraced depravity and madness. Yet, if we execute one innocent man…one man who lived a good life, and did the right thing, but was failed by our justice system, then I tell you that is simply one too many. When someone is dead there is no going back. And although we can never give someone back the years, if we do not destroy their life, there is only a chance for redemption. The principle is equal on the issue of abortion. Those without a voice, without the ability to enact their will, are guilty of no crime. We will support their birth and bring them into a new world. And we will find them homes. We will allow all people seeking a child an honest chance. We will teach true sex education in our schools and decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies. We will do what is right. In doing what is right…we will also allow you to make the ultimate decision: whether this life, or its current quality, is something you still desire. The integrity of life is not the domain of the state, only the protection of the powerless and the innocent. If one, under their own volition, wishes to meet their maker, we shall allow them to do so. Your life is your own.
In closing, I wish to express my deepest gratitude to all of you. For you will truly become the American dream. I will awaken you from your enslaved slumber and give you wings in which to fly. I do not want to run the world. I do not want to run your lives. I want to empower you, because I believe in each and everyone of you. I know we have but only scratched the surface of the issues that we face today, but I want you to know with every stroke of my pen, with every echo of my voice, I will work to bring liberty to your doorstep. And She will knock, allowing you the chance, the hope, to allow Her into your life. Cast aside your bigotries, your hatreds, and truly understand that no one is identical…no one believes or shares in the same things. Not at home or abroad. Together we will prosper, with an understanding of our individual uniqueness and our collective purpose. We are brothers, sisters, comrades in the struggle to build a more perfect society. Catholics, protestants, Muslims, nonbelievers….homo and heterosexuals….man and woman…child and elder…black, white, and all the colors of the world…I ask you all to stand with me. I ask to be able to stand with you…
And together we shall stand tall and shake the foundations of Heaven, creating Eden again on Earth… a paradise of both temporal and eternal freedom.
Will you let me serve you..?