Some thoughts on the future for the new year...

Those unfamiliar with history are doomed to repeat it, or something like that. I say it's horseshit. Lewis would call this "chronological snobbery." History does look pretty ridiculous from my sofa and, while it's nice to feel so superior, my descendants will think the same of me. We all do more to recreate the past than to create the future. I think that those who do not understand why history sounded like a good idea at the time will do something equally asinine without realizing it. That seems more plausible to me. Most people I know talk about how they will somehow be a higher quality person than those who came before them, usually speaking of their parents. They say they won't have flabby arms, won't lay such tremendous guilt-trips on family members, never divorce, never drink, never hurt those they love... I say it's horseshit. The apple can say what it wants about progress, but it really never gets too far from the tree. As a society we cluck our collective tongue in condescension of events like genocide saying, "Not on my watch." We turn a blind eye to our participation in current conditions that give rise to such events. We fight a war on terror looking ever-more like the terrorists. I say it's all horseshit. Until we embrace that we too work with our fathers' hands, until we embrace the genocide in our skin, until we are willing to look in the mirror and think, "I am at times a terrorist," we never stood a chance in the future anyway.

The Gospel According To John Byron Tucker

This here tale's about a man called John.

They say he is my ancestor- I still don't like him much.

They say the place he lived is not that far away.

His neighbors lived miles from here.

He said, "They're animals in suits and ties with cities and skyscrapers.

They are not artists like me."

John felt the need to create.

He said, "My first boy child will be a masterpiece."

He laid the woman down by a creek.

She was shaking like a wavering reed.

She was trembling but she never said a thing.

John never heard a preacher-man preach.

He never saw the preacher-man twist his sheets.

He was working in the field.

She hated John, but all he could see.

Her skin was smooth like the surface of the water:

nature moved underneath it all.

John said, "God made work, not love."

It wasn't long until he was done.

He felt it was his finest accomplishment.

The preacher was wrestling with his conscience

because he sowed his seed among the rocks.

She was pregnant for a month before John knew it.

John always thought himself a scientist,

but he knew new life was not the realm of science.

He left for town in search of a philosopher.

The preacher knew too well the narrow road.

He confessed this sin at midnight, and tapped on the window.

The woman was not around.

When John got home, she was gone.

He sat at the table with his shotgun:

overwhelmed with the most unholy righteousness,

he knew justice was a wedding, and it only happens once,

he sat a the table in darkness,

at midnight he thought that he heard something,

and he fired with all the fury of the kingdom coming.

It was morning before they knew what he'd done.

He turned himself in at dawn.

No one ever knew how the act was strangely just.

He said, "I mourn no man's loss.
I was only born just once."

But John was convicted of murder.

The man with the verdict was not long.

John climbed the stairs the next morning.

The gallows groaned under the weight of it,

They want no more of this justice.

The woman watched at a distance,

feeling strangely detached from the life that she created.

The door was opened to the laws of nature,

and the rope held the weight of the kingdom coming.

My therapist asked me this week if I was truthful with her. "Mostly," I said, "except sometimes, I'm wary of your agenda." She smiled and asked me what her agenda was. "I think you want me to say, 'Fuck you world, I'm gonna do what I want,'" I told her. She laughed and said that she really didn't have much of an agenda. "That's frightening," I said. She admitted that she tries to speak what she hears me say. "Then I guess that would make it my agenda," I told her. "I am wary of my agenda." She asked me what I wanted that was so frightening. "Apparently, I want to say 'Fuck you world, I'm gonna do what I want.'" She thought this was funny, too. I could destroy people with what I want, she said. "I would have to be a pretty angry guy to do that," I said, "Are you saying you think I'm an angry guy?" She told me that she thought I was an angry guy, but that she was not afraid of me. "I guess that makes my silence powerful," I told her. She asked if I planned to save the world with my silence. "That would be nice," I said. She asked if I was really that nice. I paused, and said, "No, I want to say 'Fuck you world, I'm gonna do what I want.'" She said that there wasn't much more as a counselor she could do to help me. I asked, "Is that what you think or what I'm saying?"

How Patrick Garrison Did For William Harrigan What He Could Not Do For Himself

William Harrigan,

I will find you
when I am dead.
I will introduce myself to you.
I will kill you once again.
You must die.
I gave you life
for death.
When we both are dead
I offer you perfection when I kill you once again.
You must die.
Do you remember me?
I shot you dead.
I set you free.
I made a name for us.
Now, you must die.

Sincerely,

Patrick Garrison

Once, I Dreamed That I Was Samuel Clemens

Once, I dreamed that I was
Samuel Clemens.
I dreamed I was white
like a dove.

I dreamed I stole God
from my lady love,
and turned all my words
into dollars.

If I really was
Samuel Clemens,
I'd sit by the fire
in a nightgown.

All the stories I'd tell
would all gather 'round.
They'd judge me
so quietly.

Gather 'round the fire
and listen closely to me.
You can tell a lot about a man
from his stories.

My thoughts about blogging are someone else's thoughts about dancing.

Danse Russe

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
again the yellow drawn shades,--

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

-William Carlos Williams

A Story About Progress

When he grew tired of aspiring to be rock's next boy genius, he moved on to real estate.  It was something his mother suggested.  He agreed it was safe.  He applied the same principles of theatrics and exploitation in the office that he did on stage.  He became the quintessential success story of the modern age: rock star turned entrepreneur, electric car, no fence on his yard, lesbian neighbors.  He was inclusive in every way.  He remembered anger with the sort of good natured indulgence that one reserves for the questions of children.  The world became so clear to him.  He saw all life in a continuous labor grasping for actualization.  He ceased holding onto thoughts and became.  When he looked in the mirror, he saw his father's face.  When he looked in his father's face, he saw history.  He pondered the mystery of identity that one life force could have so many names.  He walked only in circles, and never in lines.  He was so happy.  He never lied.  He died in a plane crash amidst the machinery of flight and the pious ejaculations of the terrified.  He made such a small splash in the water.  He felt so at one with all matter.  But much to his surprise, he was still conscious after he died.  He could not open his eyes, but he could see.  He could feel when small fish began to caress his body.  He could sense his lungs full of water.  He became prisoner.  And he resigned himself to the fact that he would be unable to survive death.