My grandmother taught me this nifty trick. She said that if I ever wanted to get in touch with my feminine side to simply have a conversation with it, but how does this relate to the American Dream? You’re familiar with the American Dream, yes? The cartoonish lettering we associate with buildings from the heyday of the American Cultural Moment, i.e. the 50’s, when conformity and largesse were the orders of the day? And behind it all an upwelling of cloud cover, puffy and purple with the barest hints of orange for the sun is setting on the western world once again? This is me having a little conversation with my feminine side.
Imagine these cartoon people who live in a happy little dreamland where everyone is living the best possible life, and there was never anything wrong with anything ever. People made of some especially durable elastic substance, who never corrode with the weather, or suffer from acid reflux for example. The world they know is not the world known by you or me, for honestly that aforementioned sun has been setting for quite some time, regardless of what our durable cartoon people think, but it’s one of those tricky things wherein growth and decay are nigh indistinguishable, the escalating consumption of our domain just a byproduct of a particularly virulent thought disorder stems from population explosion which is fed by the same ongoing virulent thought disorder, but what is this ongoing virulent thought disorder you might ask. Let’s hold off on answering this question, shall we, and instead jump ahead to the present where all sorts of things are wrong with all sorts of people all the time.
I try to imagine the car mechanic getting off work and going home to some little house in Veneeta, to his wife and dog, but no kids. Maybe girlfriend instead and drinking Schlitz upon Schlitz as the moon becomes more and more distinct in the sky, a quarter in relation to the infintessimal stars. In short, I want to write around my head again, and thought maybe I could find you there sometime. Because we can only do what’s best for us every once in a while. The rest of the time we’re lucky if we don’t step on our own feet over and over again. This is another world that also doesn’t exist.
You see, I been spending many years talking about how wrong I am like maybe it was novel to always be down on who you are, but eventually maybe you got to look to other people and ask yourself how you could maybe be a little right on occasion. You know, like some saint or maybe just a beleaguered social worker with a caseload the size of a grandfather clock and two kids she’s raising by herself. Or the Best Western front desk clerk on the graveyard shift staring through a wall of windows and at the fringe of grass surrounds the parking lot, tapping her pen against the desktop and counting minutes, maybe with a crossword puzzle to work through, or maybe just a lifetime of regrets. Try her on for size.
Because, sure, there’s a whole world of humanity out there, and each one deserves to have their own moment in the sunshine, but where have those moments gone? The words are working their way through my grey matter and out the fingers to create strings, but these strings only wind back to their point of origin, like a mobius thread. Thinking too much, Mr. Boyer? Maybe I could try raising the internal monologue tax, or maybe just stare at a blank wall without a thought in my head for hours on end like I did back in Boston that year Í almost forgot who I was altogether. The answer is something else. Point being that we’re all about as lost as legumes in among the lizard family, and tricked out on our nine lives.
You look at yourself and think you’re the prettiest picture was ever painted by two persons midcoitus. Then you grow up. Then you can’t face the fact that you’re all grown up. Then you jump from one part of the world to the other because you don’t want to face the fact that you’re all grown up, that maybe you can transform the waking world into some elfin kingdom if you just do lots and lots of daring adventures in strange countries and in the beds of strange women, and this is why a person takes to telling themselves they are wrong repeatedly for several years straight. Which brings us back to our little conversation with our mirror image on the inside, and how it relates to the American Dream, and this ongoing thought disorder.
You may want to plan every moment of your waking life so as to avoid unfortunate surprises, but who do you think you are? Think of it this way. There is a brightness that comes upon a person as they’re making their way in the world today, taking everything they get, and tossing it in the waste bin where it blossoms into a lethargic monosyllable, aka God. Or better yet. You reach out, grab hold of something, and believe that you are somehow a part of that thing that is so obviously distinct from you. Punch yourself in the face and see how disconnected you are then. Ongoing thought disorder momentarily neutralized.
Post a Comment