I never thought John Cage was
trying to tell us anything about silence.
He told us music never stops,
only listening does,
and what if we never stop
listening? What if we become
so accustomed to focusing
on sounds that we forget to
tune out and block and cocoon?
What if we love sounds
“as they are,” as he says?
Will we ever get anything done?
Or will we be swept away,
dancing to the garbage trucks,
crushing today’s refuse to bits?
Will we sway softly to our own
heartbeats or hum in tune to tinnitus?
We won’t distinguish between the
sounds of skates on the sidewalk
and the instructions of the arresting officer.
As our loved ones tell us we’re the
only one, we’ll be listening to the
dripping of a loveless faucet
or the groaning of a protesting
gate hinge forced to give way.
We will live in a constant stream
of unconnected moments,
drowning in the music God
sent to save our souls.
Now, ol’ Billy liked to talk a good talk. He’d get all puffed up and talk about how he was gonna storm the capitol and take the country back and things of that nature. Well, ol’ Billy had all the courage of a bunny in a dog kennel and all the strength of a tallow tree in a hurricane, but he thought he might just be able to take on the Feds if a few of his friends went along for fortification. And he figured he had about 10 million friends, according to what he’d been reading, so he was feeling pumped up and just a little cocksure.
So Billy went down to the Army surplus store and got a flak jacket and some combat fatigues, the ones with the pockets here, there and everywhere, you know. He had already ordered this cool black shirt declaring Civil War to take the country back from the people who took it away. Things didn’t used to be like this. It used to be that a man like Billy got some respect, but not anymore. No sir, no one gets less respect these days than a white, Christian man who loves women and wants a family. That’s the way Billy saw it.
Billy really wanted to save the world, because he’d been doing some research on how things were going, and he put together all these things on his own. Once you get to looking at things, it starts to come clear. You won’t find out about this stuff on the Communist News Network, because they’re all in on it. They’re all working together in this global secret society that controls everything, and they’re horrible people, he says. He says they’ve been selling children for sex and practicing mind control on everybody.
And all those sheeple go along with it because they haven’t done the research. They haven’t looked into things like Billy and his millions of online friends did. With God as his witness, Billy knew something had to be done before it was too late. Before the last chance slipped by, he had to stake a stand, by God. He might have to lose his life, but at least he would lose it doing the right thing for his country and for his God. He had an AR-15, of course, everybody did, but he got a couple of smaller sidearms, too. They’d be more portable and easier to conceal. He also got himself a Taser just in case he got into close combat.
Now, when Billy got to the capital, it was just like they said it was gonna be. Everyone was excited and having a good time, and they were all glad he came. Even the president came out and thanked everybody and told them to stand strong against the deep state. They had to support the patriots, and Billy was fired up. They were chanting and laughing and having a real good time. They even got inside the Capitol, and Billy couldn’t believe it.
He was going around saying, “This is our house here! They cain’t make us leave.” He had so much fun taking selfies and dancing around knocking things off the walls. Finally they did all have to leave, and he was amazed by how great it was. Man, oh man, they really showed ‘em whose country it is.
A couple days later the thin blue line came after Billy, and he was shocked. He was on the side of the president for Christ’s sake. How could they be stopping him? He didn’t know about any violence, he said. He thought it was just a peaceful rally. He didn’t think it was a civil war or anything like that.
You need at least three people: one to drive the truck, one to throw the bales up on the trailer, and one to stack the bales on the trailer. That was me. I mean, that was I. I was the one who stacked the bales.
You had to stack them so that the bales on the edge of the trailer were raised on the outer edge and sloping toward the centre. Once you had a good stack of hay going, it shouldn’t be tilting out in peril of falling back to the pasture. If you stacked them right, you could rest pretty easy, and it made a pretty pattern, too, if you like that sort of thing.
So that’s what we did. It was a pretty small load, I guess, as we only had a pickup truck and a double-axle trailer, not even a gooseneck. I think it was about 32 bales or something in that ballpark. Everything seemed okay, so we settled up and pulled out on Farm Road 942 to take the hay up to the lease further west on 942. To go east to west on 942, you have to cross Highway 59, which is five lanes: two northbound, two southbound, and a chicken lane in the centre. To follow 942 from east to west, you had to turn north on 59 at the caution light into the chicken lane, go a little ways, and then take another left to continue west on the farm road.
As you might have guessed, as we turned right on 59 and started to pull into the chicken lane, the load shifted somehow. I don’t know if the springs sagged a little or we hit a pothole, or what, but I don’t think I stacked the load the wrong way, so I really don’t feel like taking the blame for it. Still, the load shifted and about half of it fell on the highway, and we had to get out there and pick it up.
I wasn’t any too excited about doing that. A couple of years earlier, I was crossing at that very place, by that very caution light on my dirt bike when a car hit me, a 12-year-old boy riding a dirt bike illegally across Highway 59 at dusk. I survived that crash all right, as you can tell, but I still have little flashbacks every time I turn onto 942 right up to this day.
Still, you do what you have to do, and we cleaned up the mess pretty good, and I think we added a couple of ropes to the sides to help hold the bales a little closer to home and then made our way to the cow lease, which was only a couple of miles up the road. All’s well that ends well, I guess, but I always keep a couple of extra straps on hand when carrying any kind of load on a truck or trailer. Every time you see a load dropped on the road, I can guarantee you that the last words someone said before setting off was, “Let’s go. That ain’t going nowhere.”
One interesting fact about the Moscow, Camden and San Augustine Railroad short line in East Texas is that it never did go to San Augustine. For whatever reason, it never went further than Moscow (pronounced moss-COW), which was only seven miles from Camden. That line was built specifically for carrying timber from the Camden sawmill, but it also carried passengers all the way up to 1973, which was about when I last rode it. By then, it only took passengers on excursion runs from Camden to Moscow and back.
The last time I rode it, I was about 12, and there was a young mother sitting across from me with children who must have been four or five. I remember her saying, “Come on, kids, if we keep a look out, we might see a cow.” That was funny to me at the time, but I now see how smart it was. Those kids were certainly going to see some cows and not much else, unless a horse came into view, because there was nothing else out there but trees and cow pastures.
This clever mother guaranteed that her children would not be disappointed all while keeping expectations fairly low, and I can report that we did see plenty of cows that day. Hereford and Angus, I think they were. I think we also had the bonus pleasure of seeing a farmer on a tractor, so those kids had a great day out.
Other than cows, I think we only saw abandoned houses. Camden was a company town, but the W.T. Carter & Bro. lumber company moved all the workers to Corrigan a few years earlier. In its heyday, the population of Camden was only a few hundred people. We made definite plans to return to those old houses to see what treasures or secrets the previous owners had left behind, expensive jewels, perhaps, or (more interesting to a child) diaries and letters confessing to crimes and misdemeanours. For whatever reason, we never thought much of ghosts in a metaphysical sense, but the idea of past lives lingering in these empty buildings was palpable.
All we ever found in any of those houses was broken bottles and forgotten dreams.
I don’t think gender issues should be so complicated. If it isn’t in someone’s nature to conform to the rigid gender stereotypes imposed on children from birth, that person is trans, but certainly no one is obligated to adopt that label for themselves. And we wound’t have any conflict about it if we just let people live their lives according to their own nature and desires.
Those who are great leaders should lead. Those who are nurturers should nurture. Those who want to wear makeup should be encouraged to do so. Those who enjoy wearing dresses and skirts should be able to go on enjoying those. And people who enjoy wearing suits should be sequestered in office blocks in the central areas of major municipalities where they won’t interfere with the rest of our lives.
We could have food and entertainment shipped in to them so they never have to leave. They could even have fitness equipment on site to keep them relatively healthy. In order to keep them from resenting life in a prison, we would call it a campus, reminding them of all the fun they had in their fraternities and sororities. We’ll make them think living in a high-rise prison is a perk of their merit, their innate superiority. They can dream of colonising Mars. We will sing and dance and love and laugh with merriment till the cows come home.