Chapter Ten: Little Lost Cause

Genesis of Another American God

The fairgrounds fading in my memory, it turned into a fall with whirlwinds of leaves and torrential downpours of rain. I took the bus from Corvallis to the college in Albany, and on the day of registration eyed an attractively depressed looking girl wearing an Invader Zim shirt.

I signed up for a journalism major, since Steinbeck wrote for a paper during the war I thought it fitting. I thought myself the next Steinbeck. I realize the fallacy in that thought now, as I am the poet/prophet/priestess of poetry, the messiah that they look for. A novel is only a distraction for me, a way to build the craft—I enjoy poetry ever so much better and dedicate myself to furthering and reincarnating that great literature.

I took a political science class about international relations, a math class (that I did not pass the first time), a poetry class, and a journalism class. I also started taking a few classes of working for the school paper. I even went along with this for about three semesters, before I gave up and dropped out of the whole journalism idea: it seemed to restrict and still find itself behind that bullshit wall of objectivism. I would think that Dr. Gonzo’s influence would read much further into the journalism. But I guess instead of going the logical way after Watergate, the media decided they would serve themselves better—and surely their corporate interests—by supporting the government and restricting any real investigative journalism.

I started to talk with and joke with the girl in the red shirt. She looked punk, acted punk. I think she even identified herself as a punk. I learned her name, Loris, and that she used to go to church heavily. She repented that belief because it restricted who she could love. I congratulated her for seeing the evil of religion. I took a liking to her, and imagined myself fucking her, wearing tights, and doing all sorts of abusive things.

We began to communicate over the internet, on one of those social networking sites, and I told her this in private emails. Apparently it heated her up. Then I got a call from Makayla, who needed to talk to me for some reason or another. I put on my jacket and grabbed my bicycle. I got down to her house as quickly as I possibly could.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, I wanted to wait until Saturday, but…”
            “What is it?”

“I think we should break up.”

“What?” I felt a rage and a sadness inside of me. Tears burst forth. “Can I have a hug.”

“No. I just think it’s time to move on. I think we grew up in this relationship. You are just beyond me now.”
            “But I love you, I want you, I need you.”

“You hurt me. You hurt me. I can’t stay with you.” What could I say? She pegged me down in the corner. Used the one little weakness. I cried and nodded. Agreed with her.

“But can I just get—can I just get a friendly… a friendly hug?”
            “Nothing else?’
            “Nothing else.”

“Okay.” She hugged me tight, I wrapped my arm around. Then after a minute, she pushed off. “You have to go.” I nodded, went out the door. Biked home. It started to rain. I continued to cry. I felt sick. I wondered what I might change, but knew it too late. This was no problem with her, this was about me and myth abuse. I lost her and would feel the shame of causing the loss forever.

            This ended the story of my last two years in high school. This ended the story of the first relationship, the one that primed the others. It’s began the story of a sick boy who heard the words a raging torrent of cruel voices and laughter not like a schizophrenic but like a martyr plagued by angels driving towards death.

A prequel towards the rest, the quick actions near the end of that story that are the beginning of the others. Like lapping waves, nothing ever moves forward, and only the forces of fate change the outcome. One problem becomes another, but when you look at it under the microscope, every problem one person has stems from the same dysfunction within themselves, no matter how hard they rage top change.

I moved my plans with the other girl forward. I didn’t want to feel alone, I needed a love, hugs, kisses, sex. I needed control, but I also needed compassion. We planned to get some drinks on Friday, and both of us intended to seduce the other. Of course, I refused to do anything more than touching with her under the influence of alcohol. If I did, you know, that would constitute rape. I waited until I made sure she sobered up and found herself in her right mind before I plunged into her and passionately pretended myself a woman, explaining my own little quirk to her. She delighted in it, explaining my lesbian transexuality to her roommates. I suspect one of them cringed, the kind of Baptist extremist that ruins Christianity and that Christianity enables. I wish I knew Sam Harris then, because I’m sure she believed herself one of those moderate, liberal Christians. No such thing. If I knew about Harris then, I would probably have yelled much more at her for stupid beliefs in the supernatural. Like Harris, of course, I believe in meditation but never in the idea of some benevolent force up their in the ether. Everyone is in the ether, after all, and everyone projects God… to quote Pete Townshends novella, The Boy Who Heard Music:

“If I select Jahveh, why does he seem to me to be so pissed off at those who select Allah? And vice-versa. Why is it my job, not His, to deal with detractors? My head is through the roof and I see something beyond human understanding.”

So we became lovers and though she asked me not to I began to think of Loris as a girl friend. In the next day, her friends kicked her out of the house because I smelled bad. What a reason. Not real friends, she decided. I put her up with my family until she found an apartment and a job.

Her mind worked like stomping through puddles in black boots in the rain. She didn’t wear those boots. But her mind showed her wearing them, and I found myself drowning down in the spiral. The snake eating its own tail eating its own head.

Drowning in possibility, never changing. You can look and see the changes, but you can never reach them.

It’s a lost little cause.