The More Things Change - Notes on Static

Written for the Racket reading series.

(As I began writing this I kept hitting a wall, which is fitting with the theme static. I was stuck. So what follows is notes about the subject I was stuck on during the past week. The main thrust is that in my hometown there is currently a proposition to make public camping a punishable offense, thus criminalizing homelessness. I’ve been pushing people to vote against the prop and it’s been heartbreaking to see people I once trusted demonizing people in crisis.)

The more things change, the more things stay the same. 

The static we might see on an old television or through an empty radio channel is made up of ancient signals from the furthest reaches of the universe. See, the big bang happened and sent energy rocketing outwards into the abyss and now I sublet an apartment in Oakland. Some religious folks might say that the big bang never happened, and to that, I ask “Well, where did all of the static come from?”

The more things change, the more things stay the same. This is a cliche. A colloquial turn of phrase that means essentially that all of this, this life, our “character arcs,” the rise and fall of nations, the rebellions, the beginnings, and endings, are all cyclical. Variations of a theme, like a retrospective of a dead composer's most beloved opus performed through various musical styles. Swing. Bossa Nova. Ambiance. Static.

I get online to see one of my former students explaining why she’s voting for a proposition that targets the homeless. She says she doesn’t want to criminalize homelessness but that I don’t understand how bad it’s become. The city is so dirty she says. It’s unsafe. She says she wishes there was a better solution. She sells homes for a living, big houses for hundreds of thousands of imaginary dollars and I ask her what does “selling” has to do with “home.”  She says I’m just thinking about my family. When I tell her none of us has any claim on this land, she says we will never agree. And someone else posts a laughing emoji.

The more things change, the more things stay the same. This is a promise. A cliche turn of a phrase that basically means that all of this, this existence, our “individual storylines,” the collapse and rebuilding of society, the insurrections, the alpha, and the omega, an ouroboros. A snake kissing its own tail. Renditions of a classic piece of theater performed through various stage styles. Minimalist. Kabuki. Pantomime. Static.

There’s a Jesus that lives in an old yellow RV outside of my work. He’s a Black man in full Christ regalia, cream robe, purple sash, the crown of thorns, the wig of modest brown curls. On Easter, he stood outside and talked to an old white man in a red Miata for 6 hours. Yesterday I watched him drink beers on the roof of the RV with another man. A disciple perhaps. A different man, not Jesus, came up to the door one day and asked me what I thought about all of the homeless people in the area. He complained about all of the RVs on the street. He asked if we had any “issues.” I told him that Jesus lives in the yellow one. He said but aren’t you worried that something might happen and I said something is always happening. Which things should we be worried about?

The more things change, the more things stay the same. This is a crisis. A troupe boarding on the absurd that basically means that all of this, this extant state, our drama, the tearing down and ersatz restructuring of cities, the urban sprawl, the decaying mass, the growing extinction, the end and the ending, it’s all on a round track. Riffs on a bit performed through various voices. The same joke- told in multiple eras. That’s what we said. 

As I try to write this my boyfriend keeps dying in a video game. He’s played the same section dozens of times and the same animations repeat. The woman’s neck stretches beneath the table's legs to pursue the little bag boy as he runs towards the narrow window of escape. I ask him how long he’s going to keep playing and he says as long as it takes. And I think we just keep trying to get to the window.

The more things change, the more things stay the same. Every death is deemed explainable. Every bit of suffering is part of the plan. 

As I write this down the kids ask “Mommy, why does everybody have a bomb?.”

I’m afraid I’ll have to write this all down again.

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“Oh nameless god 

of rage and 

hate I bow before 

you.”