A Confession

I have not said much these past few years. It is not for lack of anything to say. I believe each of us has a bit of God’s Magic in us, and at a very young age, I realized that part of me is where the power of my words and pictures comes from. When I was a little less young, I used that power to divide, to cut myself off from my family. The silence after that lasted five years. It’s one of the bigger regrets of my life. And I vowed never to use my words or art to cast a divide ever again.

Today, I broke my vow. I told a lie.

In the city, I encountered a man who was raging up and down about how he would not wear a facemask. America is a free country, and lock up that DAMN Mayor Lucas, and this—this “plandemic” was the work of Obama, etcetera, etcetera… It seemed he had tried to go into an establishment that required masks. They even gave him one for his brief visit. Although they gave it freely and he had apparently taken it, he told them how they were infringing on his freedom and then told them where they could shove their mask.

Not one to shy away from a little insanity, I gave him a nod and a, “Hello. Wow, it’s warm for November, isn’t it?”

Maybe because I’ve worked around therapists and such for the better part of this life and have acquired the look—you know, the one that says, “I have fucks and am willing to give them…” Or maybe it’s because I work in community healthcare, which lends a similar look: “I have fucks and give them. Freely.” I dunno. But Mr. Freedom shared freely with me the whole top-secret conspiracy: How COVID-19 is fiction, how the wearing of masks is not 100% effective and is a form of control (which made me wonder about birth control), and how he hopes my pansy ass knows how to use a gun, because, Sweet Jesus, I’ll need it. (Do people think you can shoot a virus? I am from Baltimore… Could it have been that people were trying to shoot syphilis? I dunno. Please help me understand this.)

This went on for several minutes. (Not the wondering about shooting syphilis, but Mr. Freedom educating my pansy ass.) Several minutes. Too much time to spend so afraid and angry in a life already too brief. But I heard him out. I stopped wondering about shooting the syphilis. I remained present and sat with him in his utter discomfort—a discomfort I now shared, although in a different way. In his explanations—shadow stories—I heard the words of others, others who have misused their power… They used their words to convince a man that the only way to escape a falling sky is to run out from under the roof. Don’t believe your mind. Don’t believe your eyes. These others cast divides. They cast lies.

For the space of several heartbeats, I was pissed. But for the most part, I felt sorry for Mr. Freedom. I heard behind his words. The sound was like a dam, poorly built. Not holding back at all but holding in. What he held wasn’t belief but anti-belief. It’s the thing that makes it so that when God tells you to love your neighbor as you love yourself, you simply can’t. Not because you don’t believe in God, not because you don’t believe in yourself… You don’t believe yourself loveable, so you can’t imagine anyone else loving you either. You distrust anyone seeing the good in you, because you’re unable to see it in yourself..

You believe you cannot be saved. Even by yourself. Even from yourself.

It’s the darkest magic.

I sat with Mr. Freedom in silence for a moment. He wondered aloud if I could argue with it—any of it.

That’s when I lied: I told him I couldn’t. “Arguing with it,” is an ambiguous phrase, after all. One can argue with something: As in arguing a position against something. But some currents—shadow currents—cannot be moved against, only with. So you use the arguments to argue. When you can’t cast out doubt, simply cast more doubt.

Yes, it’s a dark magic.

“It’s warm out for November…isn’t it?” I asked. “What if… What if it’s real?”

“The weather? Of course it’s rea—”

“Sorry, I meant the virus.”

“You know it’s not. It’s—not. I just explained to you how it’s not. Where’s your—?”

Suddenly, I became Mrs. Peacock: “What if the idea is to convince you it’s not real, though? Then you don’t wear a mask, catch it, die, and then, because climate change is real too—my, it’s warm—see, the ice caps are melting and flooding the coasts… What if it’s real, and this is to kill you so all the yuppies from the coasts can come in and take your land?”

He looked at me. I felt the distress behind the expression on his face—like something got through the tectonic plates underneath and he was trying to hold back the quake.

I had fracked him up.

“You’re twisted,” he said.

I laughed. It was the most sensible thing anyone had said to me all day. “I am.” I resumed my stroll. “But I’m not a pansy. Just a dandy.”

When I glanced back to give him a wink, he was still staring at me. His eyes had gone cold, maybe a little dark.

I cared. But only a little:

He was wearing his mask.

It was dark magic, I know. But humans are strange creatures: Sometimes we need dark to invite light.