there is so much history as to be insurmountable. How do we humans do it? How do we survive our own memories, our own collections of bizarre, disconnected, and overmatching artifacts? By all rights we should develop wings on the sides of our shoulders that immediately pluck the femurs from our legs and use them to pound out holes one thump at a time in the ground straight past layer upon layer of even-weighted dirt particles all the way to seventh hell.
Memory is as memory does; that is to say, if it is transparent, it is your memory; if it is heavy, it is probably your memory; if it is bright or dark or smells of blood, it is probably your empty-ass memory.
In the dark, in the city, there are and were moments in which you are and were cold and warm, awake and asleep, there and not there, powerful and impoverished, empty and a shining, singing, silver god of Olympic magnitude causing those minions that would remain with you to cower and tremble in delight and terror and ruthless objectivity.
Elect to allocate your elocution to the unlikely antithesis.
Tomorrow, yesterday, today.
I remember a Levi’s commercial in which a man wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket with mid-length brown hair spoke into the television camera about authenticity. There was music in the background with lyrics saying “it’s got to be real.”
I bought it hook, line, and sinker. I’ve been buying those jeans ever since. So have others.
And others and others and others.
I do believe that this is as close as I can possibly come to patriotism without going blind.