How to Escape from Untenable Reality
if you plan to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you’d better first make sure they are some big fucking shoulders.
Strap the world to motorcycle—
A laptop of unwritten ghosts,
Sleeping bag of dust and pine.
Fifth of the hard.
Gallon of the life.
Ride not away from love
But into the arms of horizon.
Beautiful and ambivalent.
Kerouac whispers: go farther.
Bukowski mutters: drink deeper.
And the wind says:
“forget them both—
just be here,
just be alive.”
Behind:
Wreckage of duty,
Jealous husbands,
Weight of want.
Ahead:
Endless road,
The chance to finally breathe
Without asking permission.
The storefront windows are dust-blind, sun-warped signs peeling. Inside, shelves sag with cobwebs, memory of spines long carted away. But here I am, one man with a heart full of words, parked on steel and leather. The cicadas buzz a hymn. A single page could flutter past, and it is mine to catch. The town forgot its stories, but i didn’t.
We are all Frodos, hoping and wishing we find our Samwise. But, the best we can really expect is a Pippin or Mary—which are no slouches by any measure. But we all need someone who would climb the stairs of Cirith Ungol with us.
The longest journeys are just one short walk after another.
I’m seated on the ground. Back to a post, hiding from the growing morning heat. My place on the hilltop in front of this old Catholic Church is pleasant as the high point in this tiny town. It is windy and i can hear the cries of children at recess below me.
I wonder if they have happy childhoods. Pleasant and loved, or are they harboring secret terrors they will hide from their whole lives?
Isn’t it fascinating a group of desperate souls so young and fragile can forget whatever demons for half hour while they play? Hands raw from clinging to rusty monkey bars. Dreams of flight as they try try try to swing so high they go all the way around, or when they jump they reach escape velocity and spend their childhoods rocketing through space.
The last one is probably a secret wish of the troubled little minds exclusively.
A fresh cattle aroma is carried on the wind here. It is primarily a dairy town. Founded 134 years ago by German immigrants, they have maintained the majority population, even as an Indian family now runs the German grocer and the two liquor stores here.
I guess the Germans are too busy raising cattle, collecting milk and making cheese and butter and yogurt. They do make the very best raw milk and yogurt.
I’ve been by this church, Saint Mary's (over the entry is a large sign that reads: Sancta Maria Ora Pro Nobis) a thousand times in my life in the area. But only one other time have I approached it. It was my uncle's first wedding in the eighties.
He married a kind woman, a nurse just a few years older than me. While I always despised him, she was a kind and welcome addition to the family. They had a son who, to no one’s surprised, turned out to be as big an asshole as his father.
The marriage didn’t last. She went on to another life after a few years and forgot about us. As I said, she was a kind woman—and wise as it turned out. I haven’t seen her in 34 years.
My uncle, who died last year of prostate cancer at 62, went on to a marriage to a woman even closer to my age whom I knew her from high school.
She was the kind of person I expected him to marry. And they lasted until his death. She works about half an hour from here at a pecan themed gift shop.
I don’t patronize them.
I remember being a young teen when he first got married. I felt weird and icky going into the church. I was trying to become a godly person then and nothing in the building made me feel holy.
It all felt intimidating and—superior. Like my presence was somehow smaller or reduced in the space.
I guess, in hindsight, I see the logic, from a human view. If I have power and want to remind you of that, I make sure my seat is higher than your seat.
Psychology 101.
But isn’t a relationship with God about him seeing us? Him being our friend? Him showing a small-minded flawed human His love?
I don’t frequent churches, but in the dozen or so times I’ve been into them in the past 30 years (including everything from little places like this all the way to Vatican) the feeling is always the same:
Intimidation.
The God I serve is not one of intimidation. Certainly things about his power is intimidating—inspiring–fearful even, but it’s not a scary or hideous thing. It is one of awe.
I do not miss my uncle. I do wish he could’ve been the kind of man who would have made me better. Would have made me feel safe and loved. A voice of approval and reassurance.
But he was more of the kind of personality this church represents: one of intimidation.
The kind of person to tell you ‘I’m bigger than you. I’m better than you, stronger than you. And I’m not going to let you forget it. Remember your place boy, don’t ever think about being anywhere different.’
World's Largest Shovel
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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