Friday, April 27, 2012
Well Maybe We've
and they're doled out like seeds into the ground.
- Lia Ices, "You Will"
* * *
It's like this: the challenge you and me face is to see. Clearly. Without clouded, maudlin, woeisme eyes. We all got trouble, brother. We all got trouble, sister, and that is the least of it. Tell me something new. Tell me what you see. Tell me what you see that trouble cannot destroy. Tell me what you see in the midst of trouble, through the trouble, in spite of the trouble, because of the trouble, beyond your troubles.
We all got trouble, brother.
We all got trouble, sister.
Now, tell me what you see.
* * *
I drive a long way to work. It is a country road drive past mansions and shacks and farms, through small towns and great tilled fields and great fallow fields, and I am sometimes slowed by tractors and tillers using the road to get from one parcel of land to the next. There are fewer people along this route than other routes I could take, and I like the lack of density and I drive and drive and sail along. The drive takes over an hour and I listen to music, the digital equivalent of the mix-tapes I made in high school, to settle my mind, to transition from the guy who wakes early to write his way out of trouble, to the guy who works to buy his way out of trouble. It all ends too soon: the writing the ride the music the quiet that settles me the sense of calling duty mission I have with the writing the ride the music.
And I see lives I'll never know. Lives lived in a manner I'll never know. I wonder about who lives in that ridiculous McMansion with too many horses on too little land. I wonder about the lives lived so that hulks of non-working cars and boats and trucks populate the yard and a brand new swing set shines in the middle of that junk. I wonder about the people in the cars going in the opposite direction, in the cars that turn off, in the cars I pass. I think about their dreams. I wonder what they are like. On this sparsely traveled road past and through towns with less than 500 people I think there are too many people for us all to find meaning, for us all to find our way. Some of us are always going to be lost. Some are always going to be fucked and the guy with the horses is no better off than the guy with the rusted out cars. Same with the guy driving my car.
Who am I to think I get a pass, or that because I write and still make mix-tapes to soothe my mind, to woo women, to listen for something that is recognizable in me that the guy in the car that just passed me isn't thinking, "Better him than me."
And that is just a trick bag of fear, as if there is a finite amount of meaning or happiness or purpose in the world. Yes, there are too many of us, too many who are living pig-fucked lives of fear and ignorance and hatred and intolerance and just fucking giving up because it is hard to see beyond the trouble, to live alongside trouble, in the midst of it. Too fucking hard.
But maybe we've all got our missions and they're doled out like seeds into the ground.
It takes a measure of faith to believe in the work of seeds. All the work is done out of sight, underground, in utero, and then...
* * *
The seed doesn't need you. It is you who needs the seed.