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Current Issue
MEMORIAL TO MY CYNICISM
BY JONATHAN LETHEM
Well, the first thing to admit
Is that it isn’t dead yet. Or never really lived. It was a memorial to itself all along. My cynicism stands, a turret, a wicker man, Built of former postures weathered into timber, With interior shelves cluttered, like those In Alice’s rabbit hole, with paraphernalia Wreathed in dust and webs and yet still Of sporadic use. So I don’t tear it down. Besides, I’m fascinated with the thing. It looks so much like me, but was never me. I’ve sometimes slept inside it for a night or two But lately make my camp a little further west. So squatters make as much use of it as I do. At certain hours of the night, zombies of rage Sneak in and mount torches in its eyes. I’ve heard them dancing at its feet, the fools. Imogen is our friend’s daughter, and our friend. More important, today she is our babysitter. She loves stupid jokes, and baking, and talks Like she’ll be a writer, but quips innocently, “I could never be a writer — too many words.” She’s brilliant with the kid. Imogen’s young, Sure, but our baby is dew, blazing with novelty, And looks on Imogen as an idol, a savant, a titan. Who knew Imogen was out there? Who can complain if They keep bringing them along like hotcakes? (The baby has no cynicism. Imogen’s, if it exists, Is made of green saplings, bent into a kooky cup Hidden in the woods. Maybe she wears it like a crown.) An Irish woman in San Francisco once told me A story I could never use until today about A dark tribe whose land was prey to fair invaders. These natives hosted the blond lords for a season Until some local flu, to which the tribesmen were inured, Chopped them down like trees. Then, observing How the blonds had treated their own early dead, The tribesmen mounted several dozen funerals, Buried the blonds in a gated plot on a high hill, Each in a box, and marked with carved stone, Then maintained the scene for generations, Collective memorial to — you know — what can happen. Meanwhile, their own dead the natives interred In shallow graves of sand on a wide, sloped beach, There to be washed out to sea, as tradition ordained. “I’ll write a poem,” I joked, accidentally teasing My golem of cynicism into view on the horizon. Nothing makes me cynical like a poem, at least my own. (I discerned I was no poet sophomore year.) But what a shock to see how distant and decrepit That figure had become. As if by night My camp had wandered further west, further Than I’d imagined I’d ever want to go. Or than He’d imagined. But he doesn’t have much imagination! I had to admit I hadn’t visited in a while. Now Who would restock those shelves? Or make use Of the viewing deck? Could my memorial be made A beacon on shoals, a lighthouse? Likely not. It may not even be visible to anyone else. & |