1/27/10

Once my father's name was Ron. Ron knew of his invincibility and pondered the hilarity of it. The banal work of driving trucks offered time for reflection, visions of the infinitesimal speck he was surrounded by so many specks even smaller. The clearness of chaos paved the road in front of him and he drove through those long nights distracted by the clarity of omniscience. A  star swirling, flaming, raging in the galaxy, all things would soon gather around him in the natural order. By the time he super novaed everything would be as it should. He would be an established writer, bestowing wisdom heavenly and grand to the masses of peons in the most gracious way possible. Like Lord Christ he bestows a gift on his followers, a taste of of the beyond, the cosmic truth binding left and right, black and white. His life is as clear as the road in front of him. Winding, bending, switch backing and disappearing over the horizon he shuttles through the night to deliver his load. The load is material and earthly and inconsequential. His path leaves Earth's gravitational pull, crosses the Heavens, and with a wave to the globe, he leaves it all behind. These things were as certain as the doom of the sun every night.


He drives down that road and stops in towns and runs printing presses and writes for newspapers, all the while riding the farthest reaches of the Milky Way. He surfs between constellations and settles quarrels between red dwarfs. He is the king knowing the truth about the infinity we inhabit. Nothing will die, no one will be held accountable for their mistakes because mistakes are just truths imbedded in ignorance. From dust to dust, and Ron to truth. Uncertainty is the only constant, and Ron abided by the rules he did not create but mastered. He knew his legacy was just beginning. He knew this was not the end because an end is a beginning. His optimism would save him. He spread his seed with a mortal, ensuring the continuity of his cosmic reign.


Ron is now my father. “Ron,” I say, “take me to the Milky Way, let's surf the stars together.” He looks at me and stares and mouths the words, “My tongue has been taken by the gods for my hubris. I am denied the stars.” His son wishes he couldn't read lips. His son deserves the stars his father was banished from. Billions of years they have awaited his arrival. His son acquiesces and nods. The two sit in silence, the father gliding along the comfortable shelters of community. His son pats him on the back as he steps into the stars and smiles. He sticks out his tongue, mocking the gaping wound in the father's face. “They will not get my tongue,” he says. “I was born to be one of them.”