Justin Taylor - The Gospel of Anarchy

I wept.

The path of faith is a gravel road that spirals up a mountain whose peak is lost to view. The sky is always gray on this mountain, leaden and vast, marked only by the fog that obscures the peak, but subtly infused with the bright light of God’s loving presence, which awaits those who make it to journey’s end. The path passes through a country so austere it appears almost blighted, but this is because everything unnecessary has been cast away — all the horrors of the world as well as the dulcet delights of our utopia, that secret and special place that God blesses but does not deign to visit. The first stage of the journey had been to realize that there was a world worth living in. The second stage had been to actually come to life. The third and final stage was to give all that up, of one’s own righteous volition, for the only thing that could possibly be better, which is to say, the only thing in the universe that really existed at all.

From a certain windswept plateau, a resting place on the path, I beheld the totality of Parker’s vision: its scope and magnificence matched that of this very mountain on which I stood, and yet, unlike with the mountain, I could see the fullness of what Parker had done. Through study and dedication I had reached his limit, and if I continued in my pursuit — as he was willing me to do, and as I, with all the purity of my longing heart, willed to do for him — then I would surpass him. Could this have been his intention all along? Was it the force of his desire that had brought me here?

In the distance above the summit of the mountain disappeared into more of the same gray, as if the sky were the skin of some great slain animal, hung up to dry. But I knew there was the golden-crimson firelight of eternal truth burning at the top for me, and that a shaft of flame fallen from that original pyre was what burned inside my own heart, and that this would draw me to the apex, the terminus of the lonely and faithful path. Likeness called out to rejoin with larger likeness, as all water flows to the ocean and— say it again, say it again— purity of heart is to will one thing, even as I walked down sidewalks lit sickly by streetlamps, a river of shadow dotted with islands of anemic orange light, in and out of traffic, horns and curses, the well-traveled route home overmapped with the lonely faith path, two places at once, Here and not-Here, as the Pattern is the breaking of the Pattern, left turn right turn the path is always straight and narrow, through the fence gate and up to the porch — the last door hinge since broken and the screen door junked in a tall green bush like a knife sticking out of a head — but I did not pass through the portal — I paused before the doorway, frozen, one foot extended, pressing forward on open, empty air as if on a face of stone, exerting pressure on nothing, and this nothing unyielding, it rebuffed me, and so finally I put my foot back down on the ground and just stood there, unable to cross the threshold and step onto the porch. I put a hand forward, palm out, but it would not go through, either. I could feel a heightening of my senses, a quickening in my blood.

The living room was dark, and the VW, too. I could have called out, roused them up, but I stayed silent, and my silence was the secret of the secret, the silence of the mystic rose that was fully blossomed within me, the silence of the paradox at the heart of faith.

I walked around the side of the house — the far side — where Paolo’s tent had been. When had he left us? How long had he stayed? What time was it now? I tried the back door. The knob was cool in my hand. I held a big breath, turned it, and swung the door wide open. I stood in the warm sweep of air as if in a tide pool, keeping still as it washed over me. Then I stepped forward and once again the house wouldn’t have me. I could go no farther than the concrete slab on which I stood.

Fishgut .

I turned away from the house, and at the moment I beheld the tent felt a wild and elating warmth rising up from my chest. Looking down I saw that a prophecy, one of my own, finally, had come to pass. The mark of my faith was radiant, and had set my thin tee shirt aflame. I reached into the embered ring and unmindful of the heat-bite pulled hard with both hands and the garment, rent, fell away from my body; glowing cinders of fabric free-fell onto the carpet of dead leaves, so that soon the whole yard was lit up like a movie set, but my faith shined brighter still; I was a lighthouse, and lit my own way down the final steps of the Path; it led to my tent of course, where a candle was lit for me, its weak light pitiful compared to the light I was bearing, and when I reached it — only a few more steps now — I would snuff it out or else it would be absorbed into me — was there a difference? — and then I would zip the flap open and expel all the dead husks of the candles stored within, and leave behind a heap of broken glass humped like dirt on a refilled grave.

Parker would return when I returned, and I was coming.

I was almost Here.

When she first sees David he’s aloft, above the crowd, arms and legs akimbo, face twisted into a vaguely painful-looking but mostly ecstatic mask. He floats closer and she thinks first how good it is to see him, then how glad she is, specifically, to see him here. She’s always liked David. He’s cool, and super dedicated to his scene, and it’s kinda funny that he’s come out tonight, actually, because she’s been thinking about him. Ever since — what was it, Tuesday? Wednesday? Anyway. Since she wrote this poem that she thinks he’ll like. A copy of it’s folded up in her pocket. She had been planning to swing by the house after the show, have a beer with whoever was around, and either give David the poem or leave it for him — though of course she fully expected him to be there, since he basically never goes out. Which is why it’s so cool that he’s here. The poem isn’t supposed to be anything special, or maybe it’s a little special, okay. Just a Hey man, been thinkin’ of you . But now here he is at Clasen’s, kicking ass in the Dust Biters pit, which is no mean feat — for a pair of folkies, these guys fucking bring it —so maybe there’s something after all to that weird book she helped the Fishgut kids do the layout on. What was that saying they had? Desire brings your something something to the truth… Fuck, she can’t remember how it goes. She can hear the rhythm of it in her head, the familiar intonations of the absent words like silhouettes on a screen. Oh well. She’ll have to flip through a copy when she’s over there. Of course she could also always check the master file on her hard drive when she gets home.

As the song ends, David drops — is dropped — back into the crowd. The greatest things in life really are free, aren’t they? She’s nudging her way through the audience to go throw her arms around him, but then there’s shouting up ahead, a scuffle breaks out, and now there’s chaos: some people are surging forward, looking to get in on whatever it is, while others are scrambling backward, wanting no part. Anchor is caught between two groups headed in opposite directions, nearly loses her feet in the crash and sweep. By the time she realizes that it’s David at the center of it all, the situation has reached its climax; they’re throwing him out. She strains, short girl amid the gawking throb, to see him, and thinks he catches her gaze but can’t be sure. What did he do exactly? It must be a misunderstanding. He’d been shouting something, but she couldn’t make out what. Anyway, the whole thing’s over and done now. He’s been booted. Removed. Ejected. Tossed. Good-bye.

She’s about to go after him, but the singer is starting to say something and she pauses to listen.