If I had a lever and the right place to
put it, I could move the world.
Somebody said that once...I think they
even told it to me, but I forgot it for a long time. I tried using
short sticks – just little broken-off pieces of longer sticks, such
as you find when you've been following that one kid home from school
past the corner sausage-shop. That one little kid from the immigrant
family up the street (and don't forget that you are only a generation
behind him – you just don't have to deal with hand-made sweaters,
the way he does). That kid would walk home and grab fallen branches,
break them up into smaller pieces and leave a trail of little sticks
on the sidewalk.
“Stop makin' a mess!” I wanted to
shout at him. I never did, because I knew I would be making the same
mess if I were alone. We all make messes of one sort or another, and
it would have seemed a little hypocritical to shout that at him,
knowing full well my own desire to break branches apart. I didn't
know the definition of hypocrisy back then. Did you? Who did at
that age? Who knew what an immigrant was? That little kid had
hand-made sweaters and a mom and dad who shouted at him in a
different language. It was the language my grandparents spoke –
not my parents, though. I had sweaters that were purchased at a
store.
He broke sticks apart, and he broke
things apart when he got older. Broke people apart when he got
older. No one wants to break things like that, but some just do it,
and he was one of them. He didn't speak the same language as his
parents anymore. He didn't speak my language, he didn't speak
anyone's language. He spoke his own language and broke things. And
his parents weren't buried in Polish soil, but soil is almost the
same anywhere you go, isn't it? And if you imagine hard enough you
can see it's all connected and maybe leaving a path of little broken
sticks can help anyone find his way home, as long as the soil is all
the same.
But it isn't.
The story? The plot? Kid grows up.
Kid trips out on chemicals that he injects into his tongue to make
his language better. He takes a long syringe and injects industrial
chemicals into his tongue – right underneath, where the veins are
blue and slippery. You know where I mean.
Kid gets the chemicals into his brain
and they make his eyes get all loooooopy-wild. Kid clocks his mom and
dad on the head (both of their heads) with a pipe or a steel rod –
no one was sure what it was. Kid lights the house on fire. Kid sits
in the front yard and injects industrial chemicals underneath his
tongue while he waits for the fire department to show up. Kid's
heart explodes from overdose of industrial chemicals. Kid is buried
in soil (please see reference to his parents, above).
And we all lived happily ever after.
If I had a lever and the right place to
put it, I could move the world. I just know I could.
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