(25 records of a saddle)
(the saddle feed)
(drops of ink)
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On Self-Destruction
You told me you were jealous of my sister — so pretty, so pure, so white — but now my sister's in a cult, you're working for a defense contractor, and I have no way of contacting either of you.
I'm not sure if you actually wanted to become my sister, or if that was just one of those things people say to make conversation. I know for a fact though that I wanted to become you. For instance, that icon of the virgin Mary hanging on your wall, staring down on our naked bodies — you hated it. So I wanted to hate it too. I imagined it on my own wall, I imagined growing up with it as a treasured possession of my own mother — and in the process I fell in love with it.
I come from a world of religion too of course, though maybe you didn't realize it. My religion had no icons. When you visited my house, the same day you met my sister, there wasn't a single trace of Jesus, his mom, his apostles, or even the cross he died upon. If only my brother were still living with us back then. I could take you down into the depths of his room and show you his shelves of Christian metal CDs. Then you'd understand the true nature of this religion we subscribed to.
Now as I sit at my desk, thinking about you, I wonder if you ever think about me when you're designing those missiles of yours, surely intended to descend down on my adopted home like cherry blossoms carried by the wind. The skyscrapers will crumble and our bodies will turn to dust. Two centuries of struggle — East meets West — reduced to nothing. I would die and I'm sure you would too not long after, but what about my sister? Will she be spared from the fallout, in her little cabin in the countryside, sleeping peacefully with a warm water bottle tuck into her sheets with her to keep her warm, blissfully unaware as our two societies annihilate each other? At least we'll all be able to meet again, once we finally vaporize ourselves. Will we still know what to say to each other? Will you even recognize my face?
Essays:Contact me at saddleblasters [at] gmail [etc]
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