Jeremiah, what is my purpose?
What do you-
Jeremiah, what is the right question?
The right question is the right domino, the one that knocks down the second most right question, and then the third, and so on that way and so forth.
Jeremiah, does that mean there is no great final answer? To it all.
Of course there isn’t.
Why ‘of course there isn’t’?
Because the universe is not a movie, or a novel, or a fragment of culture. It is a forge.
Its purpose is not to tie up loose ends. But produce. Create. Form.
So what is the answer to my initial question, then, Jeremiah. What is my purpose?
For now, learn how many ways my is highly misleading as a word.
Mistakes are like Old Testament men with infertile wives. Somehow, even left with no direct route, they find a way to multiply. We thought it was love. And out of love, family. But in reality, it was the other way around. We want family, and also love, so long as it leads to a little one who looks and acts enough like me I don’t feel so final about my final trial. Mistakes will copulate, they will take more wives, servants into deep closets. The progeny of mistakes will begin to ooze out of the woodwork like oil off all the fingers and hands that have touched it throughout the decades.
Mistake begets mistake begets mistake.
And in this way, Adam repopulated the world. And Abraham after him. And so on and Noah afterward. Cutting the foreskin off their boys so all women could recognize them. A nametag of sorts. Hey. Eyes are up here. This isn’t about pleasure. This is repopulation. An old man with a sharp knife saw to that. In a sordid old fashioned way, fixing his own mistake.
I will commit to my mistake, so long as a nonspeaking, unknowable, most importantly, non-human deity demands it of me. I will walk my only sun to the top of the mountain and snuff him out like a distant star between my pointer finger and my thumb.
No I won’t.
I will learn to not make a god out of any entity that makes demands. Any object that seeks to undermine the rules of physics that require we all tire out and die when it comes time, for the sake of a story, for the purpose of proving a point, betrays its own laws and rigid guidelines, fixes them like they were mistakes, like stray dogs, is no God of mine. Is no God at all.
That is what you call poorly developed literary device.
I don’t need my universe to make mistakes.
I was self-made to make enough for both of us.
Garden. And another thing. Gardening. When growing once weeds, be sure to weed them. Oh no. And dairy goats. Five of those. And counting. Kids with cries unknown while we grapple with our own. Caterwauling. Cat or walling. Equally intrigued by both. Enough hens to cover a family in eggs. Neighborhood game rooster crashes for the night. That is all right. I have no objections. He can stay, so long as he cries before that first splash of light across the fields down the hill. Covered over in hay cut and baled. Thinking a farmer better come and collect them. Hay bales left in fields too long have been known to walk off. Pigs. Smoking corn cobs like cigars, chewed down to the nub, blowing smoke in the cold. The part where pork in my freezer pranced in a lot and I fed him a lot and I worked on his pen, he gnawed on my fingers and untied my boot strings, no kidding, pig on the other side mouthing my gloved fingers through the interwoven pieces of pig fencing, low, and heavy. When the ground grew soft enough, they tore up the dented green deep planted garden posts that supported them and laid whole twenty foot sections on their sides, and the pork in my freezer took off on short lived bursts of adventure. Scaring customers. Scaring me. Even as I tempted him with hotdog buns back into the pen I kept him in. It is a hard life to live. A tricky dynamic. To keep an animal in conditions that are rightfully, globally accepted as wrong for humans. It’s like stepping into the mind of a spider. A thinking predator. A not always consensual symbiosis. Farming may yet prove to be nothing more than the most complex spider web ever implemented in the world. Dinner served all the same. Good food, nutrition. Life giving. Energy lending. And it is heavy. Taking the life of anything is. It needs to be. It introduces us to the idea that some day we will also die, and in this moment, for the first time ever, we will be something else’s dinner. Chicken. Pig. Produce. Beef. People for as long as time have been putting their hands together and praying thanks, good things, hopes and wishes, with the leftovers of perfectly innocent things decorating their dishes. There is only one thing that makes it all right. And that is the truth. That old Christian recognition.
Some day dinner will be on you.
The mountains saw God. And oops.
Their hair turned white. Parted nice and neat
in between full wavering ridgelines combed over into neat clean
albeit dusty looking landscaping. Streaks of dark where evergreen
keeps the whole scene dirtier and salt and peppered. Bovines speckled
like dandruff and the hillside is framed in farmhouses for ears.
Muddy overflowing creeks at the bottoms of powder white mountains.
Electrified, traumatized by the divine presence
streaked white lightning like a skunk’s sour complexion.
Smell it from a corpse on the side of the twisted mountain spine.
Conscious thoughts in cars slow one by one slink up along connecting
traffic circles and overlapping highway junctions to thoroughfares down around
the hips to the mind. Some house in a row of them. This one is mine. My mind.
When it believes it perceives a thing it fails to describe.
A jolt of spirit blown white lights the burning penetrating radioactive kind.
Snow. High of sixty yesterday. Tonight. Oops. Low of nineteen. God.
Is not all these mountains have seen.
Love: A line of credit you’ve given very few people access to that has no spending limit, that despite your current situation, one way or a thousand installments after, you will eventually pay the balance.
God: A monosyllabic reminder that Mankind invented language, and when language fails to name something, the fallibility is in the vocabulary, not the universe.
Death: A superpower life discovered early on that allowed us to not just learn from our failures, but eat them up for supper also.
Cruelty: Doing to others, solely without second thought as you have had done to yourself. Severe lack of story. Caught up in some moment. A tangent. The overfermentation of desire. The flex of weakness.
Trust is a sail.
Faith is a paddle.
Hate is what anger becomes when it matures. Be careful not to make an enemy of hate.
The word enemy is a doorway for the hateful. Make them fuss at you through a window,
a good word for that is called a neighbor. Hate is a season. Hate is a debit account.
Once it’s spent it’s done and gone. The overdraft fee on hate is criminal.
Hope: long list of chores and an early start.