What age. How much time.
Until the promise buried in the heart of the future is a frightening one.
Where in the past then did great change happen, when forward was no longer toward.
But a way.
What is time to the stuck. Broken. Fixed.
On a certain time like a frozen clock.
A speedometer that no longer works is still absolutely right most of the time.
Runny is the glue that binds us. How long is the dry time on an anxious father.
Try convincing him correctness is not necessarily progress.
To clocks with broken hands.
To odometers that no longer count.
To wet glue.
Presence is purpose unmoved by the promise of tomorrow.
I said this thing to Ashley the other day. Talking about our son. I said you take Roan so personally, and I take him so plurally. Every sound he makes moves her. And if he is upset, she can not settle. I admit, I laugh at him in his little tantrums a little too often. But I look into his eyes, the only part of him that really doesn’t appear all that infantile, and I see a million other sons. And daughters. And naturally, a lot of parents take their kids so seriously they never get around to pluralizing the experience. Recognize it has a unifying effect on the people who have been affected. It’s social adhesive. Procreation. A biologic gauntlet, that in this particular instance, we sort of tripped over. And thank God for that.
But I can’t look at my son and not see my society. I refuse to fail to imagine the world he will come into knowing. A world that seeks to make a product out of him. Exactly as it has successfully done to me. And I desire nothing other for my son than for him to be free.
Fully free, in the one mainstream definition we all seem to forget when we use the word politically. But economically speaking, I want my son to be free. I do not want to feed the worst impulses of my society’s fear of other societies, and fuel money into the military instead of fixing my path as a nation, so that my footsteps aren’t leaving huge indentations.
I imagine all our enemies, no matter how awful, still look at their children the way I look at Roan. I imagine if they’re fighting this hard, right or wrong, they have some powerful motivation. I don’t have to apologize for, forgive or pretend to understand them.
But if I’m ever going to end this war,
I am going to have to heavily reconsider calling them my enemy.
I have a sneaking suspicion once I do that, I’ll fix my own life in such a way
that enemy is no longer their name.
I see all that in his navy eyes. In the skeptical lines as he stares me down, typing. He likes the sounds of the keys clacking. So do I. We have that, and a whole lot more in common. We all do. We could stop right now, and lay down our arms, and pull back limbs like tortoises into all of our shells. I am speaking globally. About many nations. We are fighting unending conflicts with the exact same motivation.
I knew it the instant I held my son in my hands.
I realized the source of the fear that now rules the land.
And it is the purest love I have ever felt.
A lemon growing in the woman I love. The sweetest lemon there ever was. Still isn’t too sweet. But growing two feet. And butterfly wings. When the woman I love finally settles in at night. You water that lemontree just right, and she’ll expand your definition of love. And. Grow you lemons. Well, grape turned pomegranate turned lime then lemon and so on. Plus two arms to sew on. Isn’t that impressive? This lemon can put on its own buttons. And zipper up vertebrae galore. Seam ripper the skin between fingers. And longarm till short arms grow sore.
To be clear I have never liked lemons before.
Now, I admit, I just hadn’t met the right lemon yet.