The Universal Daughter
“Boyd, why do you do it? What do you hope to get out of it?”
“Get out of it? You mean, receive in return?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s easy. I get nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
I mean nothing; no recopence, no reconcilliation, no recognition, no reconsideration. I am not paid, I am not rewarded. I receive no forgiveness, no forbearance, no forgetting. This is no debt, no ransom, no reward of any kind. No love, no sex, no friendship, not a single warm meal. I don’t even expect God’s kind countenance.
I act, I do this thing, because I believe it should be done. Someone should do it, and I am here.
Most of our lives are transactional. I will give you $10 for that $10 thing, although, to be honest, I hope to be paid $11 for an $8 thing. That’s just good business, son. That’s so very limiting. The world moves along ten dollars at a time, giving up ten dollars in return, in an incredibly wealthy environment, but it’s human nature to hoard when you can, so both the capitalists and the communists have people who hoard most of the gold while the cost of things remains the same, and there is less and less to pay for it. Want to know what causes inflation? Living causes inflation.
It would seem that all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal. That has nothing to do with socialism, communism, or capitalism. That’s just human.
Every day, you hear somebody say, “somebody should DO SOMETHING.” Somebody should plant a tree here. Somebody should make a law. Somebody should write this down. Somebody should take that dog to the vet. Somebody should help that poor woman.
Unless somebody is willing to do these things for nothing, then most of it never gets done. There is no profit in kindness.
As much as I can, I act on the basis of “this should be done,” without regard to what I get in return. As a result, I get nothing in return, and a lot of people wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
The Little Bird says I am beloved. I believe her. She is beloved, too. There are days when that child’s love is all that motivates me to do anything. There’s something you should know, though: her love doesn’t matter. She is my beloved friend’s beloved child. On her own merits, she is worthy of everything I do for her, and more. Even if she hated me, my actions in her regard would not change much.
Some of the people I promised to take care of her, she never even met. They’re family mythology, to her, they’re ghosts. To me, they were Daddy’s friends, and my friends.
For two generations, I would dutifully go, once or twice a month and sit in Doug Draper’s office where we would discuss art and beauty, music, philosophy, quisine, restaurants, records, stereo equipment, stock picks, the church, the state, the state of the church, God, not God, he made me countless casette tapes where I pracice breathing because I “have trouble relaxing.”
You know what we didn’t do? We didn’t heal Boyd. There is no healing, Boyd. What I have is often fatal, but because of how my life progressed, I cannot even have the relief of death, because I know what it would do to the people who did not die. There are pills I could take to make me feel less, including less of that, but it’s just anesthesia, it’s not medicine.
Doug was my good friend and a treasured companion, but he couldn’t heal me.
When I was a teenager, Doug felt like I had trouble communicating with girls. He had this really pretty secretary. “Why don’t we, one day, go, just the three of us, to Shoney’s (now Char) and have coffee and pie?”
“I’d love to, Doug, but you’re forgetting one thing. I’m sixteen, and she’s fucking thirty.”
“Twenty-eight,” he said, “But I take your meaning.” Actually, I have always gotten along a ton better with older girls, but as a teenager, there were legal limits.
She used to set up my next appointment at the end of each appointment. The last time I saw Doug alive, I said, “Let me call you. I don’t know when I’ll be available for an appointment.”
As I rolled a stone in front of the cave, both she and Doug left me messages imploring me not to give up.
I don’t think I meant to give up. I think I meant to rest. I survive by steeling my resolve. When the World Trade Center fell, the only thing left was the steel. Some of it melted, but it became steel again when it cooled. That is the riddle of steel. Everything else burns away, but steel remains.
By now, the only thing left of me is the steel, but that is enough. Steel is quite strong.
My beloved child finds me beloved in return, only it’s not in return, it’s separate. Our love for each other isn’t dependent on our love for each other. In my eyes, she’s eternally ten years old. The universal daughter.
I do these things because they need to be done. No consideration is considered.
