In the Loop

by John Rufo 

My life is a movie. No, not that one. Every day I climb the mountain of conflict; and do I ever make it to the top? I do not. I do not climb very far. Among the various streams, rocks, nature’s nooks and crannies, a thickly-blanketed forest keeps my vision cozy. I look out into the trees. I never make it so high to look out over the trees. As far as I know, these trees do not have any tops, there is a treetop shortage, and they may be so tall that, as in a Babel wet dream, they soar into the heavens, and their pine needles get caught in the heavenly feet of angels and devils and the little bureaucrats of purgatory too, and maybe the big guy too, G-O-D, who likes the scent of pine but does not much like being pricked by various small green and brown shoots and leaves, which pluck at their skin routinely, but that’s heaven and hell for you. At least it’s not another prayer for an animal at death’s door. Like, goddamn, you think you have it all figured out, what with the weather achieving a balancing-beam act, and then here come some poison seeds. The clock of the universe is off by two minutes again.

Yes they are both in the sky, heaven and hell, they are filled with songs made of resin and stickysweet sap, but I could not taste it even if I wanted to, because the songs don’t exist, but I imagine that it’s like a whole jar of honey being poured down your throat constantly, for eternity; and when you try to speak, you just spit up a little bit of honey, and, sure, it’s the best honey ever, local manuka honey, and that locality is eternity, the black hole of fun, the centrifugal abyss where time says this isn’t really my domain and space says I’m out for the day, and I guess there could be a farmers market or at least a state fair, and who fixes the ferris wheels in the afterlife? Sometimes wheels catch on fire and go rolling down the road. I think that when things break down, there is a little goat with a halo and wings and party city devil horns who comes over and chews on the wires, and, huzzah, everything’s crackling again, like it never left.

Either way, here I am, hiking on my little trail up the mountain passage, although I don’t have fire to show for it like Prometheus. Or like his pal Sisyphus, I don’t have a couple lucky opportunities skipping out on death, leaving death with the bill and cancelling at the last minute. Sorry death, it won’t happen again. Did Sisyphus and Prometheus ever exchange sloppy smooches in the backroom bar of the forum, perhaps with a reacharound and a couple dry tugs? I do not know. I am not a classicist. I could not speak Greek if I tried, despite this portable pocket-sized dictionary for timetraveling tourists in tow. In fact, I am so far away from the 5th century (or whenever) that if Sophocles could still speak, we would not understand him. The lions, on the other hand, here they come, rustling through the second, secret mountain passage of which I have not mentioned yet.

Okay, so there is a second, secret mountain passage, and now you know all about it. I am hiding nothing. I only conceal by accident, or just stuff I haven’t gotten to yet. The lions laugh. The lions are telling me not to worry: the lions plan to eat me at sunset anyways, and the mystery of the trees and their tops will remain, swaying, long after all the conflicts stop being such a surprise, and the mountain turns small, like a molehill, or like a pimple on the ass of the earth. I hope I am tasty; at least all my walking will have made my body succulent and sturdy. Or perhaps all that muscle will be too tough for the jaws of a lion? Have you ever thought about being eaten alive? I look at the lions inquisitively. The lions laugh again. They said they would roar but not today. Everyone always expects them to roar. We’ve never been good entertainers, the lions admit. Who can light up the stage on a cue. The circus is a prison. I believe them. They make a good deal of sense. Who wants to dance when danger is the game? Who among us can endorse a bit of razzle-dazzle? And at this moment I am backing away. The evening has descended like a fallen kite, and the night flips the day upside-down and turns the life-world into a labyrinth. I like a good maze. It is in the labyrinth where no one can fly too close to the sun. The maze is for kissing. And one can escape by edging the exit, perpetually. I am always down for a good time. I flick the lights on and off to make fireworks and a frame-rate faster than any blinking.