In which The Gay Recluse dreams of snow.
On certain days, we are made aware that capitalism is a vast, raging sea on which we are helplessly adrift.
It’s not that this is exactly news; to the contrary, we have always known this, much the way the earth is round and the sun is many millions of miles away. But when we were younger — before we spent so many years on these turbulent waters — we didn’t understand the true expanse of this sea, and how one day it would threaten to swallow us up in its infinite depths.
Nor in our youth did we understand that picking the right boat would matter so much; that those others we mocked for being slow or stolid or inelegant would be the same ones toward which we would look with such longing in a storm, when it was no longer possible to board them.
We remember how beautiful our first boat locked on the dock — with its “wooden beams and dovetail joints,” the way its sails seemed to be woven with golden thread — and how quickly it sank as soon as we lost sight of the shore.
And how we swam to the point of exhaustion until, on the verge of drowning, we finally managed to crawl up on a second boat, which though not as striking as any we had ever imagined sailing, at least seemed to offer a certain stability for which we were grateful; it was old but sturdy on the water, and populated by seasoned hands who assured us that this vessel had crossed the ocean for hundreds of years and could expect to do the same for hundreds more.
But who could have anticipated the storms with which this boat would be confronted? Everyone felt seasick from the onslaught of the waves — each a mountain on an endless, mutating range — which never ceased to crash over the decks and rip holes in the sails. During any respite, we discussed the idea of designing something new — more buoyant and fleet — but our time was spent plugging holes below and mending the sails. Everyone looked at each other and shrugged: it was understood that a disaster was imminent, but what choice did we have but to make our way forward as best we could?
But the sea was not content to let us muddle along, and in fact — as if driven by vengeance — made a point to break our masts and blow us off course into even more unfamiliar waters, where nothing seemed to work; to catch even the most common fish was a strain, and all of our lines went slack.
Did you ever see that teevee movie in the seventies, when the ship sank and it gradually became apparent that not everyone would be allowed to remain on the lifeboat, and that some would have to be sacrificed for the good of the whole? And how everyone looked at each other with terror and understanding, knowing that they would have to implement this plan? Did you see that movie on teevee? And were you also terrified when the old married couple volunteered to be cast adrift, clinging to one another with their tired fingers? And then a single lady who was probably a lesbian because even back then everyone knew that gays were worth less than other people? And did you cry when they sent the dog overboard, because how could a dog ever understand that it wasn’t just going for a lil swim?
We never realized that this horrible movie could be a metaphor for so much.
And that one day we would be on a sinking lifeboat, living in terror at the idea of being cast off and feeling guilt for remaining behind (because we’re gay and always feel inherently less valuable).
Or that our dreams for a hundred nights running would be filled with nothing but stillness and snow.
