two things:

1.
can someone confirm that emily kagan is indeed the feature at the hut tomorrow night? i was under the impression that she couldn’t make it and that caroline harvey was the feature.

2.
thought i would post this oldie for the moment we’re in.

it’s a good several years old, so keep in mind it’s not in my current style.

TALKING TO MY SON ABOUT THE DARKNESS

I have been thinking: What do I tell my son about the darkness?

I could say:
it is a young man who lifts his lamp to view a blade, thinking of how the knife separates skin and flesh, lifts sinew from bone; he knows that if the edge is slender enough and sharp enough he will see the fibers of muscle parting from one another before it, steel chasing off the body’s coherence.

I could say:
it is a woman who leans out the window on her elbows, tosses razors at the street, then slips down the stairs toward the back door, carrying gossip to the slaughterhouse; someone there will learn something before dawn, then direct mechanics to adjust the wheels on the juggernaut; and on the way home the woman will wipe shreds of tissue from her face, slip a liver into her jeans pocket, hurry along trailing rumors and cartilage.

I could say:
it is children who will tell you that while in daylight they are safe, under the dead moon they dream of suckling straws filled with their own blood; setting their lips upon them, drawing the red up, the columns of blood rising, cresting in their mouths only to fall toward their stomachs, sharp nourishment; slowly taking in a great lesson — to live through these times, one turns to simple answers, and simple answers require simple meals – so they are learning how to feed upon themselves.

I could say:
darkness has been undefined until now, but now the moon slips into a hole in the sky and continues to glow above and behind the obvious shadow, at once present and unaccountable; our poetry smells of rich meat, phobias, fire and restless pride and secrecy; blood is being served as we are forced into our stereotypes, unable to move faster than the speed of custom; our houses crawl with indignation, death penalties, ferocity unbridled by logic, nuclear proverbs to live by.

A man takes forced pleasure from a woman while a child slits the throat of an ancestor. All are longing for the light; but instead, there is the darkness, the American darkness over us all – violent, simple, fast, clean cut.

And we think we will last forever this way.

So, what do I tell my son tonight? I tell him to look at the stars.

I tell him:
If you lie on your back and are very quiet, you will hear the tearing of the dark’s fabric, the sound of those stars breaking through the sky.

I tell him:
One star can singly pierce the dark, but cannot cut through it completely by itself.
We had our chance.
And we failed.

I tell him:
Lie on your back out here tonight, look up and tell yourself:
I am a star,
and I am not alone.

And I tell him that the length of “forever” may depend on what each star does next.