I want to write an
honest sentence. Forgiveness is arbitrary, but the arbitrary is not.
The one time the old man came to him in a dream, he was lost and
confused. The sun kept rising and setting behind him. Go into the
light, the younger man said, and he did. Take your trauma and
run it in fast-forward until it's funny was the worst piece of
advice. The best was to tell stories, but he couldn't remember in
what order they fell, and they did fall. What was the relationship
between trauma and the ordinary world? If what's ordinary is sacred, what of moments torn from its rib, given half-life and an apple
for the teacher? If not sacred, then rimmed by a migraine's aura.
When she reads in church she cannot see the words; there's a hole in
the text, or in her head. Scripture drains away in flash flood. Why
is it funny that the Noah's Ark Theme Park flooded? my daughter asks.
Our explanations fail her. The myth of a myth is perhaps a truth. Or,
the president* hit a birdie and was on television to boast about it.
We don't get cable any more, so his face blurred as if protected
from our gaze. Witness protection, you know. We need him re-elected
because otherwise ratings would plummet. He's the engine of the fake
economy, one where talkers talk and fact-checkers go on holiday.
Someone made the mistake of calling this paradise, so I responded in
a little box. Is tropical suffering worse than that in cold climates?
He should feel better, someone said of a friend, because it's so
sunny out today. But this today I walk between bands of rain. If you
peel the film away from the screen, and only watch the screen, your
memories will turn clear as rain water. I am obsessed with my
memories, but don't hold onto them. I put them in small plastic
sleeves and give them away like toothbrushes or hand soap. It's what
I do to forgive myself for living in this world.
--29 December 2017
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