The Grooves In Someone Else's Record
Growing up thirsty and lost in suburbia,
I thought there'd be a place for us
out where we couldn't get lost in the wide dry streets
laid out in crescents and culs-de-sac
built to catch ghosts and spit us out.
I dreamed and grew and changed my address for 20 years,
but it still all managed to be the same,
only with slightly different maps.
Virginity was a tool,
and then sex was a tool.
Drugs were bad,
and then there were bad drugs.
I was frightened
when I found myself tracing
the same circles with new names
under my feet.
The crescents and culs-de-sac
replicated themselves in rented living rooms
and pagan ceremonies under black trees,
in rogue towns and underground economies.
I began to wonder if our purpose wasn't to change matters
but to put new spins on the same message,
to merely shift the flavour of what was spun,
mistaking the patterns of our feet for something happening.
We memorized our lines like revelations
and committed to our calling, calling, calling
with the hope that someone, or something, would come.
In 1977, we sent two golden records into space
to tell the extraterrestrials all about us,
but it's clearer to me now,
and it becomes clearer every year,
that we might only be the grooves in someone else's record,
tracing and retracing our DNA's stories into a planetary artefact,
reciting patterns of a language older than our memory
until the extraterrestrials catch wind of it and say
oh, we see now, we get it, we hear you
to that sad god I learned about in Sunday school,
the one who made people to cure its loneliness.
But its cure might not be us,
and we might not be its companions,
its grateful pets to fill the void.
We might simply be the medium for this lonely god's message,
its long calling, calling, calling
with the hope that someone will come.
I am publishing a post every day in November for NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).