Oh People!

I am excited to announce the existence of my podcast—
No Way Out but Through.

The podcast is a deployment of monologues, poems, music, and stories that revolve around a central theme. It’s waking upside-down in a car filling with water. It’s the strange piece of metal you found with the map brought back from your dreams.

Show 1: Past Tense
A psychic finds a strange piece of metal with a map brought back from her dreams. Scott draws some questionable conclusions about the present, based on serial misreadings of his own past. A town reacts to long-awaited infernal signs. The Past is your permanent crazy ex who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart. From the radio desk, Scott suggests a weekend activity for the kids at the Armory, involving art and knives. He then gives a quick update about last week’s freak eclipse. And finally, a time-travel caper.

Listen below. The transcript follows.

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

Past Tense

1.
The Psychic’s Tale

I’m afraid of bridges, she says.
Hot sun. Steel cables. Traffic.
The water slowly rising.
Nothing to be done.

Now, in a room filled with mirrors,
she tells her story again,
and the needles
on the machines go crazy.
The doctor questions her once more
about the yellow birds
destined to block out the sun,
and the strange piece of metal
she found with the map
brought back from her dreams.

Everything in history, she says,
is five seconds old.

2.
Ten Years Ago

“Anyone who isn’t embarrassed of who they were last year probably isn’t learning enough.” 
― Alain de Botton

Ten years ago, I remember thinking, very distinctly, that I have finally figured it out. I understand where I’m going, who I am, and what the past means.

Now, to make this assessment, I was comparing myself to the self I was ten years before that—which is to say, twenty years ago—when I had previously thought: I have finally figured it out. I know where I’m going, who I am, what the past means.

It turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong . . . except perhaps ten years before that, when I was as wrong as it gets. Then, I was completely in the dark. It was amazing how stupendously wrong I was.

Now, as I’m sitting here. . . and I know what this sounds like—I mean, I know my track record here . . . but I just want to say that, right now, at this moment, I really and truly believe, in my heart of hearts, that I honestly have my shit figured out . . . I understand where I’m going, who I am, and I absolutely know what the past means . . .

One hundred percent.

3.
Infernal Signs

Yesterday, after an absence
of almost a hundred years,
the goats came back to town.

Some people
have begun selling
their worldly possessions.
Others think,
about behaving,
irresponsibly

4.
Inescapable

The past is a black Buick
filled with 40s film gangsters,
who pull even with you on a winding road
on a cliff by the ocean
and knock you over the side.
On your way down,
your life flashes before your eyes.
and it’s so boring
you can’t wait to hit bottom.

The past is the pitcher
who does not bother
backing you off the plate with high heat
but simply throws at your unhelmeted head.
The past is the catcher who kicks you in the nuts
while you’re sprawled out on the ground.
The past is the umpire who laughs,
and calls you out.

The present is the frog in the pot
and the past is what is turning up the heat.

The past is your permanent crazy ex
who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart.

The Past says:
order another round.
It says: Keep on talking.
It says: Say things without thinking.
Say things you don’t mean.
It’s your god-given right
to speak up and speak out.
In fact, let me do all the talking.

The Past says:
What you’ve said and done
is said and done.
There is no undo.

The Past says:
Do not bother arguing.
I am rigid and right
and will win every time.

The Past says:
I am all-powerful, all-knowing.
Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
It says: get down on your knees.

The Past says:
The present is nothing.
The present doesn’t last
for even a second.
It doesn’t exist.
The present is a myth.

The Past says:
The entirety of your life is in the past.
Every single bit of it.
It is unchangeable, irreversible, unalterable,
and you screwed it up so many times,
that all you can do now
is ride your poor little miserable existence out
until it breaks down completely
like a hundred-dollar car.

The Past says:
I am inescapable.
I am your masterpiece.
I am your immutable body of work.

It says:
Obey.
It says:
Get down on your knees.

5.
Ephemeral Art Day

Hey, welcome back. If you’re looking to do something with the kids this weekend, bring them on down to the armory this Saturday at 10am for the third annual Ephemeral Art Day.

Meet artist and craftsman Jack Tumble. You’ve likely seen Jack’s work at all the gift shops in town, and of course, at the airport and bus stations. His myrtlewood carvings are always a big hit with visitors to the area.

Jack will teach your kids how to carve and whittle with a knife. First, they’ll learn some knife safety from Jack and his assistant, and then work on carving their own dog, cat, or duck. They’ll be thrilled by the difference a couple hours can make, as they turn an ordinary wood block into a delightful animal shape.

Then Jack’s brother Jimmy will fire up the ol’ wood chipper and the kids will place their newly created masterpieces into the chipper where Jimmy will turn their art into useful, and valuable, beauty bark.

It’s a great way to teach kids that someday they’ll pass on and everything they’ve done in life will come to naught. As a memento of the day, they’ll receive a cubic foot of mulch containing chips from their carving, to take home and put on the flower beds.

That’s Ephemeral Art Day, this Saturday, 10am, at the armory. Admission is free.

6.
Scorcher

Thousands of nervous birds
fly over the plaza to block out the sun.
More on this story as it develops.

Popularity poll, says the radio.
Save on home furnishings.
Prepaid phone cards, it says.
The best is yet to come.
We’ll be right back.

The new governor steps
up to the microphone,
and begins speaking.
We cannot hear him
from where we are standing.
A murmur moves through the crowd.
Nobody we ask
can tell us what’s going on.

91 degrees, says the radio.
It’s going to be a scorcher.

7.
Every Kind of Siren

Every kind of siren. People shouting. Lights flashing. Everyone is frantic. I am running. Where am I? I stop to get my bearings and am immediately knocked down. I get up and stumble out of the way. The people running by look familiar, but I can’t place them.

More sirens. Fire trucks now. Two cars crash in the intersection, back away from each other, and drive off. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here.

In a store window, I get a look at myself. It doesn’t make sense. I’m a kid. I look down at my arms. I’m like thirteen or something.

It’s dark out. Warm. Middle-of-the-night. Summer. People are yelling about a fire. I recognize some of the people now—neighbors from when I was in junior high.

This is the night the barn was set on fire and took down an entire block with it. It was in the newspaper for months.

More police cars. I run to find the neighbor whose house burns down, who dies from complications. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I round the corner by the park, and see it is way too late to do anything. Why am I even here? The streetlights are off, but the fire flashes bright as day.

The firefighters get the people out, save what they can. Ambulances arriving. Paramedics. I see my neighbor taken away on a gurney.

I remember that the barn was set on fire by some boys I went to school with. Older boys. I see them in the crowd. I remember being shoved face-first into mud, the contents of my launch box dumped on the sidewalk as the bus pulled up. I walk toward a policeman but stop before I get to him. I cannot say anything. I have no proof. I cannot know that they did it. Without proof—they might think I did it. Next summer, after an argument, one of the boys will shoot his mother while she sleeps. The other will be in and out of jail until he enlists and dies overseas.

I see a girl I went to school with. We make eye contact. Our eyes say to each other: can you believe this is happening? She’ll be my girlfriend for a few months in high school. We’ll go to different colleges and lose contact. Later I’ll hear that she died of a broken heart and a failed liver at the age of 32. I resist the urge to go to her. We barely know each other at this age.

I suddenly realize that I’m trapped here, trapped in the past. Everything I know about the future does not help me. It will never help me. I have no idea how I got here. I have no idea how to get back. I do not want to live it all again—even knowing what I know.

The barn collapses. The houses are partly saved. Three people are taken to the hospital, same as I remember. I spot two friends. I slip into the crowd. I cannot possibly talk to them.

I walk through my old neighborhood. I want to be back where I belong. I do not want this second chance.