Our Accursed Human Education

There’s more to life than destruction

Misery is a state of mind, he says

Discordant agony and calculated heartbreak. A scorching breeze, the ashen belch of god’s last supper, blackcoughs past our makeshift bench on our boulevard of broken hope. Sirens crack the sky. The ground rumbles.

A shirt sleeve on my face. I wipe. And Lawrence, my father from another life, touches my shoulder. A snake came to my water trough on a hot, hot day, he says. And I in pajamas for the heat, to drink there.

Our fallen heavens. My hand sweeps an arc, brushes expired angels of our lives. You talk of snakes, Lawrence? Look around our city. Look…

No. Nothing more. A mute sickness smothers me. My language has forsaken my tongue.

There’s more to life than destruction, says Lawrence.

His words tip our heritage clattering from its casket, but I hold no mood for more bones, and hardshove its memory into the donkey stands. And although he’s right, it’s grueling to see. My eyes have suffered heavy blows since revenge boiled over the border.

My thoughts. Lawrence knows them. Misery is a state of mind, he says, and I admit that I’d like to unscramble an equation for happiness, but my belief is bloodpierced with nails. Here, among the iron bones and concrete bodies that surrendered to shellings, all the broken teeth of humanity litter our senses.

Take a beat, a breath.

Another.

Exhale. The air still rages.

Wrapped in stains, a young girl struggles near and asks for a piece of bread.

Dry, spitless. No spare love.

I’m no Jesus, I say. I got nothing. But Lawrence stands, takes off his imaginary hat, bows as if a theater curtain were about to fall, and says a yellow leaf from the darkness hops before me.

How? I ask Lawrence.

How what?

Do you endure? Young girls only understand a mouth that opens its hunger for a larger measure. They haven’t lived.

And they haven’t died, says Lawrence.

That’s right, I say. Some haven’t. And they haven’t climbed a barbican where the rooms stink of defenestration. They haven’t thrown themselves from the height of their desperation.

And now.

Now I wonder why not.

Pause, a rare instant of quiet. One more breath. Another moment of existence.

Fall back in time. A spirit sneezes. I kneel before our bench. Lawrence towers above me. It’s like a church, these streets, but without salvation. Like a god, this city, but without a reason to live. Wake to the world and pray for extinction.

Lawrence clears his throat. Get up, he says. That won’t help.

He’s right of course. Again. But before I can stretch my limbs, a bird lands on my shoulder and dies.

Now look what you’ve done, says Lawrence. A hundred years ago we paid for war with honest blood. Golden and venomous. My snake came from a fissure in the earthwall in the gloom.

My feet push me to stand. An unknown tongue runs over my lips. My snake, I say, is my sickening at what the world has become. He must be killed.

Your snake sickness or the world? says Lawrence. His face wears a skinred cloth.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

What do you mean? I ask.

Once as poets we proved divine, says Lawrence. But time ran a whetstone over our empathy and we slid back to the earth. We forgot our being. We lifted the skirts of our mindfulness and found a colony of indecency under our feet. It snaked, uncoiled, stooped, and drank a little more of our delight. If we had been strong, we would have beheaded the illness before it spread a crescendo. We would have told our fears that today is not the day, that tomorrow never comes. We would have dug into our traditions and extracted the beautiful shards of our past. We would have held them high. If indeed our city were to reflect the light again, we would have illuminated the candles of kindness. We would have insisted that our enlightenment be forever ignited.

Who’s the pessimist now? I ask, and a foreign enforcer steps from a nearby walkway holstering his sidearm. You’re not exempt, he says and marches off without another glance and fades out around a corner.

Let’s go, says Lawrence.

Walk. The streets.

Streets once treasured, now littered. With trash and rubble. Burnt broken statues of children.

Those aren’t statues, says Lawrence.

Damn him. My throat strains to strangle my sorrow.

Your blindness betrays you.

My blindness protects me, I say.

Lawrence shrugs. Dust rises from his shoulders. How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet to drink at my water trough, he says.

Your snake again? I ask.

Yes. He taught me patience and compassion. He sought my hospitality from out the dark door of the secret earth.

It’s not enough, I say. We’ve got to eat.

Lawrence nods. Over by the border wall, great bells toll the hour of our submission and great clouds of gray distress erupt with the bludgeoning of bombs.

And turn on the lights, says Lawrence.

They crushed it all down.

Of course.

Our teachings say we must despise, I say. My fist tightens.

And love.

Cowardice, as cattle do.

I confess I liked him, says Lawrence.

That damn snake again.

Lawrence looks around like an unseeing god. Don’t judge me, he says.

I don’t. I cannot.

But neither can I save my faith. My mercy.

A stone doorway, a snake’s dreadful hole. I hide my head on the boulevard. Above like vultures extermination screams.

How worthless we’ve become with our accursed human education.

How vulgar.

— — —

Thank you for reading Dynamic Creed. You may already know this, but in case not, this piece is [in part] inspired by and a tribute to DH Lawrence, a poet whom I’ve long admired, and a spiritual father from another life. His poem Snake has always been a favorite, and I’ve borrowed some of the words (including the title) from that piece to use here.

If you enjoyed, please leave a comment, or share. Or maybe both… Thanks! Victor David

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