| When you enter the hangar, you will forget your father and mother. This will happen
whether you loved them or not, and whether or not you are still in possession of your
luggage. It will be lost, of course, eventually, along with your date of birth, your unique
serial identification number, and any bodily marks (moles, dimples, acne scars, strangle
marks, tattoos, badly healed love bites) which might fix a name to your imperishable
memories. The Red Cross will be handing out prayer beads, while a nurse demonstrates
how they are used. Debilitated by dream, you will submit to moving forward, like the
others. The moment it takes to cross the open space is all you need to realize that since
birth, you have been asking the wrong question. Where the field ends there will be a
ditch, slowly filling with yellow water. It will be spring. Watching the women undress, the
commanding officer will remember that he is an opera lover, a passion which shortly will
lack the slightest substance. |
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We walked slowly toward the border holding on to each other’s sleeve, whistling under
our breath, trying to remember the magic animals we had once seen carved on our skin,
in the dreams of our benefactors. We had not known, then, that we were designed for
extinction. We took our shoes off at the checkpoint, it seemed the thing to do, for we
could see the snow beyond the border post. The blindfolded guards were polite, but did
not return our documents. A youth saluted as we handed over the banknotes. Someone
we couldn’t see whistled gaily. We had made everything ready, yet we were not ready.
That’s the way, the chief guard said gently, it’s quite in order. No one is ever ready. Now
if your excellencies will kindly permit, I must put out the lovers’ eyes. |
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We are shown the way by a garrulous peasant: The Master is in his study, annotating the
world. Holding our tongue in cheek and our fist behind our back, we approach the
Master. We come as supplicants, but have paid at the door. Corruption everywhere: His
servants indulge and deceive him like a child. The Master watches us approach with clear
but fretful eyes, as if he feared our worldly power. “Man knows himself like the back of
his hand, a rough and webbed surface, disfigured by immutable forces whose action is
too slow to be perceived. A thing alive yet mute, dumb, heavy with meaning. A silent
animal attached to the end of his limb. A club that shakes in his sleep. Man fears his
hand, fears what it may do to him.” The Master speaks as if his lips were wooden, as if
his face were a mask bound to his head. His hands, we notice, are criss-crossed with
waxed string. We look around for a suitable place to lay our offerings; there is a dried
sheep carcass lying by the door. “Take me away from here,” the Master whispers. |
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OK, here’s the story. I’m thinking about the future. I’m always thinking about the future.
The Government is thinking about me. It doesn’t know yet exactly what the problem is,
but has set down a task force. Meanwhile, premonition seeps into the solid waste
disposal system. Up and down the corridor runs a slight but continuous tremor which
can be felt through a rubber sole after weeks of insomnia. In a nearby state, a man has
everything, but misses something. He doesn’t know yet what that something is, but he
knows it’s missing. He knows because he has a gaping hole in his stomach and the
Government isn’t doing anything about it. Meanwhile, the rebels in the bombed-out hills
are developing like mental illness. Modern medication proves counterproductive.
Denuded forests provide fertile ground. The Government is at a loss, its lifeblood
pouring out of the bodywork. Nice work, commends the auto industry, but
unsustainable. Our metal is fatigued. Elections are coming up. Garbage in the streets is
not being picked up, and is becoming unruly. No one is volunteering. What happened to
our youth, cries the Government, a lone voice in the wilderness. It has flown, O it has
flown. Who said that? All eyes turn to the head of intelligence. Soon birds of panic
circle the white brick city. And now the Hero enters, wearing his eyes of yore. He reveals
the truth. It is terrible. This creates the demand for the sequel, which will warm the heart
like a changing climate. |
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Of course they don’t teach you anything. The correct response is to pretend not to
notice. Follow the instructions issued at the start if you want to reach the finish. They let
you in, now it’s up to you to get out. The easy way, there is no other. Some common
mistakes: No clambering on walls or on the other sex. Feign rebellion if you must, but
select a natural leader. Ask yourself the important questions; the right answer will be in
the second or third box from the top. When life’s great doors swing open, you will at
first not recognize yourself. But the bright, educated look wears off, presently your eyes
will be like brimming ashtrays or everyone else’s. Accept the terms and you will soon
speak the language. You’ll get a job, usually. Enjoy the money. The economy will be
healthier if you spend it, and you’ll find you want the economy to be healthy. Exploit
your youth; seek and find your partners in mass ceremonies, if necessary aided by
modern chemistry. You are free to marry, but show moderation: Hate shrivels the flesh,
love tinges it pink and destroys its firmness. Invest in your child. Choose the colors of
your living room. Our democracy is hard at work to produce a future. |
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