November 25: Blue Movie, Serenity Prayer, Flawed Creatures

Billy put his hand up at the very first part of the program, but he wasn't called on right away.  Others got in ahead of him.  One of them said that it would be a nice time to bury the novel, now that a Virginian, one hundred years after Appomattox, had written Uncle Tom's Cabin.  Another one said that people couldn't read well enough anymore to turn print into exciting situations in their skulls, so that authors had to do what Norman Mailer did, which was to perform in public what he had written.  The master of ceremonies asked people to say what they thought the function of the novel might be in modern society, and one critic said, "To provide touches of color in rooms with all-white walls."  Another one said, "To describe blow-jobs artistically."  Another one said, "To teach wives of junior executives what to buy next and how to act in a French restaurant."

And then Billy was allowed to speak.  Off he went, in that beautifully trained voice of his, telling about the flying saucers and Montana Wildhack and so on.

He was gently expelled from the studio during a commercial.  He went back to his hotel room, put a quarter into the Magic Fingers machine connected to his bed, and he went to sleep.  He traveled in time back to Tralfamadore.

"Time-traveling again?" said Montana.  It was artificial evening in the dome.  She was breastfeeding their child.

"Hmm?" said Billy.

"You've been time-traveling again.  I can always tell."

"Um."

"Where did you go this time.  It wasn't the war.  I can tell that, too."

"New York."

"The Big Apple."

"Hm?"

"That's what they used to call New York."

"Oh."

"You see any plays or movies?"

"No--I walked around Times Square some, bought a book by Kilgore Trout."

"Lucky you."  She did not share his enthusiasm for Kilgore Trout.

Billy mentioned casually that he had seen part of a blue movie she had made.  Her response was no less casual.  It was Tralfamadorian and guilt-free:

"Yes--" she said, "and I've heard about you in the war, about what a clown you were.  And I've heard about the high-school teacher who was shot.  He made a blue movie with a firing squad."  She moved the baby from one breast to the other, because the moment was so structured that she had to do so.

There was a silence.

"They're playing with the clocks again," said Montana, rising, preparing to put the baby into its crib.  She meant that their keepers were making the electric clocks in the dome go fast, then slow, then fast again, and watching the little Earthling family through peepholes.

There was a silver chain wound Montana Wildhack's neck.  Hanging from it, between her breasts, was a locket containing a photograph of her alcoholic mother--a grainy thing, soot and chalk.  It could have been anybody.  Engraved on the outside of the locket were these words:

The serenity prayer is used in twelve-step programs, from Alcoholics Anonymous to Sex Addicts Anonymous.  It's all about acceptance.  That's what this whole passage between Billy and Montana is about, too.  Billy's time-traveling.  Montana's blue movie.  Billy's war experiences.  Montana's alcoholic mother.  Tralfamadore and Tralfamadorian zoos.  These are things that can't be changed, so Billy and Montana accept them.

I struggle with the past sometimes.  Mistakes I've made.  Choices that I wish I could change.  It's a fruitless exercise.  For example, if I could go back in time, I would probably finish my PhD.  Perhaps if I had done that, the trajectory of my life would have been altered.  Maybe I wouldn't be living in the Upper Peninsula or writing poetry.  Maybe I wouldn't be Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.

Maybe my wife's struggles with mental illness and sexual addiction wouldn't have happened.  Or maybe they would have.  Maybe I wouldn't have two beautiful kids.  Maybe I would be a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet or essayist.  Or perhaps I would be a bitter, stifled academic, making my students' lives miserable just because I'm that miserable.

It's a pointless exercise.  There is no way of telling how my life would be different right now if I had made different choices.  I can't change the past, just like Billy or Montana.  I accept that.  There is certainly serenity that comes with that realization.  Yes, I have done some terrible things in the past.  Things I regret.  However, those things don't define my present or my future.

In fact, I guess I should be thankful for those mistakes.  They've taught me how to be a better husband, father, brother, teacher, and writer.  That doesn't mean that I won't make more mistakes in the future.  I will.  That's a 100% certainty.  I am human.  Humans are flawed creatures.  They fuck up.  I will fuck up.  Again and again and again.

It's what Saint Marty does with those fuck ups that make the difference.