Ayn Rand did
March 9, 2013
I’ve always been interested in found art. That is the mystery of the story told is the mystery of the author who made it up. I wrote a book which is supposedly written by someone else. It is called The Moron. It is about the ownership of ideas. The ownership of a culture. Shakespeare didn’t write his plays; Ayn Rand did.
My father said that we’d all end up in a box. Buried in memories. Death is no mistake. Life was an explosion that we live in. Everyone was headed in different directions with a common goal. Nothing makes sense in the unexamined life. What counts are the lies you get away with. Father was one of those young men called the baby boomers who never had to prove their metal in war or desperation, and thus remained eternally angry. And their anger ate them up inside, made them hungry and dissatisfied. I hated my father. He never thought I existed.
I was nine years old standing in the middle of the living room in front of the television.
“Don’t stand so close to the set!” my father barked. He took a seat on the couch. I stood in front of the set.
“You seen my cigars?”
I shrugged. I was nine years old. What did I want with cigars?
“Where are my cigars?”
“I don’t know where your bloody cigars are,” I cried. I just wanted to watch my program.
“I don’t want to hear that kind of language young man. Now I asked you a simple question and I expect a civil response. What are you watching?”
“Heman,” I responded.
“Get back from the couch. You’re going to ruin your eyes.”
I moved back to the couch.
“What else is on?”
“Nothing,” I replied.
“You’re too old for this program. Heman is for little kids. There must be something else on. Where’s the remote?”
“I want to watch Heman,” I said.
“Give me the remote.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Who had it last?”
I shrugged and sat down. My father stood up and fumbled through the cushions looking for the remote. He made me stand up. Unsuccessful he got down on his knees and looked under the couch.
“Where the hell…” he cried.
“Mom said I could watch Heman,” I said taking my place back on the couch.
“Your mom’s not here.”
“I was here first,” I declared.
“On the planet?” he asked then roared with delight as he pulled the remote from beneath the armchair.
He turned and pointed it at the television like it was a laser gun from a sci-fi film. Nothing happened.
“Mom took the batteries out,” I grinned. Mom hated the remote. Said that it was impossible to watch television when father was touring through the stations. It was like watching clothes in a tumble dryer, she said.
He left the room. I knew it was only a matter of time until he returned with batteries. I wished that I had a remote to turn him off.