A Ship Is Not Propelled By Its Wake

For those who live in more than one place at the same time

a ship is not propelled by its wake

They stepped forward to place all his mad rhythms in a bottle, all his nightmares and pointed pens of worry. They said they were doctors, but Alex of Iowa knew they were actually priests of the modern age who had no idea they were obsolete. They still believed in the gods of pills and injections.

Alex of Iowa said no, he’d take his illness outside, where fresh air could blow it away, but the exit doors were sealed with alarm codes, and he couldn’t fumble his fingers with the needed digits.

They stepped forward again to tighten his restraints, but Alex of Iowa said okay, he’d go back to his room in peace, and plant a flower in his mind that would grow into a tree upon which he could climb, and escape into a cloud, but the priests who wore doctor robes reminded Alex that a flower doesn’t contain a tree in its stem, and Alex of Iowa lay down on his bed and watched the ceiling change colors as the sun moved, and the window glass refracted.

Someone knocked the door, not down, but upon, and Alex shifted his eyes to the right to see if the door would open. It did, and a woman with beads braided in her hair entered. She carried three books upon a metal tray, and said hello.

Hello, said Alex of Iowa. He sat up on the bed.

I am Marilyn of Texas, said the woman. You are Alex.

That sounds right, said Alex.

Would you like to hear a story? asked Marilyn of Texas. They say that a story within a story is healing.

Who says that? asked Alex.

Those who live in more than one place at the same time.

That sounds right, said Alex. Okay.

Once there was a boy who wanted to be a truncated man.

I think I’ve heard this one, said Alex.

Please don’t interrupt, said Marilyn of Texas.

Okay.

The boy lived in a car with a broken fuel pump on the outskirts of town. Every late afternoon, he walked into town and went down the steps into the town’s basement bar. All the truncated men lived there, morning and night, intoxicated on their rightness. There was no drink served there, only certainty that their vision was unimpeded. They spoke of wondrous cures. They carried pens and notebooks. Their stories, they said, carried all the rules one needed to speak of truth.

Would you like to hear one? they asked the boy one day, and the boy said okay, even though he didn’t know if the truncated men meant a story or a truth.

The shortest of the truncated men stood. I am John, he said. Listen. Once there was a shrunken man who wore important suits and promised to tell everyone what to do. Only the shrunken man knew how to fix the people, the shrunken man said. Everybody listened, because they knew they were broken. They accepted the man’s words as absolute and immutable.

That doesn’t sound right, said the boy. My broken car was once new.

Please don’t interrupt, said John.

But the boy didn’t like this story, and went back to his car on the outskirts of town. His desire to be a truncated man had dimmed, even darkened. He fixed the fuel pump the best he could, and started off for Nebraska.

I’ve never been to Nebraska, said Alex of Iowa.

Marilyn of Texas raised her index finger, and put it to her lips. Somewhere in Missouri, she continued, the boy’s car broke down again. Night had dropped its pants to expose its dark flesh. A policeman stopped.

What are you doing here? the policeman asked the boy.

The same as all of us, I suppose, said the boy.

What’s that supposed to mean? The policeman touched his gun, then tasted his finger.

Looking for a better life, said the boy. They say Nebraska cures sickness.

Are you sick?

Yes, said the boy. And so is my fuel pump.

Look kid, said the policeman. I had a son once, about your age, and he told me, before he died, that a ship is not propelled by its wake.

That sounds right, said the boy.

He never told me what it meant, though.

I think it just means deal with today, today, said the boy. And the past shouldn’t push us.

What’s your name kid? asked the policeman. And where are you from?

I’m Robert, son of Luther, from Arkansas.

Okay, Robert. Let’s get a tow truck out here. The policeman squawked the radio.

Thanks, said Robert of Arkansas. But my father told me that cops can’t be trusted.

They can’t, said the policeman.

That seems odd, said Robert, but then he remembered what he had just said about ships, and nodded.

The policeman nodded back, bit his lip, then sat on the hood of his squad car, and looked at the sky. Robert joined him. The slow stars crawled over their eyes like albino ants.

Marilyn of Texas stopped, and Alex could tell by the tone of her voice that the story was over. He turned toward the window, and then back. There should be more, he thought, but maybe that’s why Marilyn carried three books on her tray.

I’ll come back tomorrow, said Marilyn.

Okay.

Get some rest, and think about what I said.

Okay. Alex looked at his hands. He was sure they could strangle a cat. He didn’t think he wanted to, but it was good to know. Marilyn? he asked.

Yes?

Will I ever get out of this place?

Yes, said Marilyn. We all have our moments. We all have other names. She walked to the door, opened it, slipped her shadow through first, then followed.

Alex lay back down on his bed. They said rain in the afternoon, but he hoped they were wrong. He still had a storm inside his heart, and surely, that was enough weeping from heaven for one day.

— — —

Thanks for reading Dynamic Creed.

I hope you liked this piece, and in general, what I’m doing, and where I’m coming from.

All my stories are free. However, if you’d like to consider a paid subscription, know that you’d not only be supporting me and our shared oddified sensibilities, but that I donate 25% of all earnings to animal and veteran causes.

If a paid subscription isn’t something you can do, no problem. I appreciate you all very much, and I’m doing this because I love writing these stories.

Another way you can support me is by sharing this story with others here, or with your friends and family at home. What I’d really like most of all is to connect with more people. I know that my stories don’t fit inside the designs of our time, but designs change. Spread the word, friends. The center of gravity is shifting.

Thanks again, and all the best,

Victor David