The Race That Writes for Itself

Stephen Dedalus does not believe in God. And why not?

The priests are not God, the church is not God. So obvious . . .

So incredibly obvious.

What else is there to write about

But God or the world without one?

The mountains look grand but not sublime this morning,

Not as they looked at first.

The car winding through the mountains in the summer, climbing,

Minute by minute, to some peak,

While the innumerable host of evergreens

Faces from the other side of the canyon, silent,

An army ready to march and fight for their Creator.

The newness of it stopped the movement of the lungs

But quickened the heart.

Order and chaos fighting over a mountainside

And the beauty of the sight that testifies, testifies, testifies . . .

You cannot fly on wings of art. They will melt—I know it.

There is too much life in your life to set it all aside for no answers.

There’s a better way, something more sincere even,

If that were possible.

The reading started on time but to be late wasn’t so bad,

Seeing that the first reader was only an essayist,

Her piece so long and calculated to impress.

The room is less than half full

But the seats on the edges are taken

Whether because of lazy indifference

Or because, likewise, they want the option of escape.

It must be good, the next one.

He was so trustworthy a judge—he always chose the best,

Gave the best criticism, always knew the right thing to say

About voice, or believability, or motivation.

The piece he had rejected in favor of hers

He gave a perfect score. He knew it was good;

Hers must be better.

What would she say?

I know your struggle and have shared it partly,

Or I can explain what you always knew, what I knew you knew,

What we both knew was inevitable?

Or I have spoken with God and there is no use in denying the fact?

What would she say?

Would she hide it deep within the folds of a clay-like language,

Working it into the texture, the color of her creation?

Would she make it felt, ephemeral,

Or would she pour it out of a bucket

Onto the parched, open mouths of those who listened?

O how they thirsted!

There is dead weight mixed into it with so much good.

It is weighed down by the weight of insupportable language.

She is reading and the words are thick with meaning,

Plunging the story into a lake of impressions,

The details broken into waves and ripples reflected on the moving surface of her prose.

It is beautiful. It is finite.

It is exactly what they want to hear.

They are pleased, clapping.

Some are standing in the aisle, ready to escape.

Sit down! Be quiet! Make her finish!

What did she say?

Please, please tell me what it was she said!

I am sitting in this room with a brownie in my hand, talking to no one.

I know what they are saying in groups of two and three:

It was good.

Beautiful pieces.

Aren’t you so pleased with their work?

What are your plans for the future?

The program has grown so quickly.

Yes, and her novel will be finished shortly; we have high hopes.

And I realize that I could belong.

I could join the exchange in groups of two or three.

One small step in that direction and they would recognize me

As one of them, the race that writes for itself.

But I have something to say that deep down

I know they won’t let me say;

Or if they do, they will make me say it in their language.

I feel a heaviness and a calm

In the midst of the conversation filling this room

And I stand, walk out of it unnoticed,

like a ghost,

Out into the world that will only offer me a fraction of a chance.