I pulled into Kenosha with a few hours
to spare. The first few shows had been pretty solid, but I was in
dire need of some down time. I found myself a green space to sit down
and engage in my favorite vice: reading pulp sci-fi. I walk through
the park in search of a tree, ideally next to some picturesque body
of water, maybe a Bodhi tree? I could use some enlightenment. Do they
have Bodhi trees in Wisconsin? I found myself in a field of clovers
in the woods. It became inexplicably necessary to find myself a four
leaf clover. I'm not a superstitious person, I just like symbols.
This is Pen Pen and a knight of the merch table.
The problem with being dyslexic (in
addition to giggling every time I pass Scotrun, PA) is that I can't
just eyeball the clovers. I have to count them. So I stand out in the
middle of this field, slowly counting each and every clover. Time
becomes irrelevant. Only clovers. There are so many clovers. As
people pass by, I become a little self-conscious about standing still
in the middle of a field staring intently at the ground. But I'm not
deterred. I'm on a quest. Two bros diverged in a yellow wood, and I
just kept staring at the ground counting the leaves on the clovers.
This is Pen Pen fixing the broken serpentine belt.
After an hour, I start to wonder if
this is the dumbest possible use of my time. Where I had previously
been so absorbed in my quest that I lost all trace of time, now I'm
conscious of every second that passes. I should probably stop. I'm
not stopping. I'll stop when I get to that big oak tree. I get to the
big oak tree. I'm still counting.
Gradually, I start to doubt whether
four leaf clovers even exist. What could be the percentage of clovers
with four leaves? One in a million? I've easily looked at a million
clovers by now. I have actual work I'm supposed to be doing right
now. I'll do it tomorrow. Clovers. Maybe it's a metaphor? Maybe luck
is a metaphor? No that's sort of a stupid metaphor. Though it is
impressive how consistent the clovers are across millions of
iterations. Maybe they only exist in Ireland, not in Wisconsin. I'm not even Irish. Why does this matter? Wasn't I just looking for a nice tree to read under?
Then my thoughts turn conspiratorial.
Maybe they do exist, but the park employs kids to pick them and sell
them. I imagine some teenager scanning the ground intently, but not
in search of enlightenment or whatever. He's just trying to get his
ten bucks an hour to have enough money to give his older brother in
exchange for a six pack of mediocre beer. It's late in the season.
Maybe there were four leaf clovers all over the pace a few weeks ago,
and now there are none. Is there prime four leaf clover picking
season? Have I just wasted an hour and a half of my life? I've wasted
more time on dumber things. Maybe I'm just not good at counting to
four. All of these questions circle around as I find my tree and sit
for a bit with Isaac Asimov presents: yet another story in which a
chosen boy discovers that he's actually predestined to save the
galaxy and then gets the girl. This is the penguin with a thousand
faces.
I make good time the next day on my way
to St. Paul. I hole up in a coffee shop in Western Wisconsin to write
for a bit. That house in Plymouth ain't gonna buy itself. Then set
off in search of a spot to sit and read. I have to find out if the
generic hero saves the galaxy! (He does.) As I walk down a trail
towards a tree-lined river, I hear music. It's good. Folky. I can't
make out the lyrics well, but I hear the word “Zapatista.” I
follow the sound to a trio of bearded guys fishing. “Is this your
music?” I ask, judging a book by its cover. “Yeah.” I end up
talking music, politics, the environment, anarchism, religion, and
other things that are vastly more important than clovers with one of
the guys for a while. As we say our goodbyes, I pass by some
anarchist graffiti. I'd credit my new friend if it weren't for the
upside down cross, and his professed Deism. This is Pen Pen smashing
the system or whatever.
Then: more clovers. Everywhere. The
path is covered in them. I. Count. Each. One. Three leaves. Three
leaves. Three leaves. No luck. There's another type of leafy green
plant that has four leaves. Does that count? No. I spy a patch of
poison ivy intermingled with clovers. Should I bother counting those
ones? If I get poison ivy from picking a four leaf clover does that
cancel out? Or is it more like a challenge before you get the Grail
or whatever? Have I been reading too much chosen one in search of a
sacred artifact fiction? The answer to those, and other questions are
irrelevant because I didn't find one. I sit out by the river and read
until I hear the first clap of thunder. That's my cue. (Isn't it
always...) I pass by one of my new friends on the way out and say
goodbye again.
So I didn't find a four leaf clover. I
didn't find a Bodhi tree. I found neither luck nor enlightenment. But
I found people. I'm realizing why I'm here. We're all so afraid and
disconnected. Most of us are kind and generous. Most of us want the
world to be better. Most of us know it can be. But we feel alone and
helpless. Looking for clovers for hours is a waste of time. Talking
to people for hours isn't. I want to do something that leaves this
world a better place than I found it. I want to put in more than I
take out. I want to break the laws of entropy, and any other laws I
can think of. I want to let people know that everyone feels just as
alone and afraid as they do. That we're all hopeless and frustrated.
And that's OK. Because maybe if everyone realizes they're not alone,
we won't be so hopeless. I don't know if this is direct action. I
don't know if this is the best possible use of my time. But unlike
looking for four leaf clovers in Wisconsin, it feels like I'm
accomplishing something. I just don't know what yet. This is Pen Pen,
over and over.
This is a song I wrote one time. You
should download it and share it with your friends.
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