Zoo Station Blues

I'm ready
Ready for the laughing gas
I'm ready
Ready for what's next
Ready to duck
Ready to dive
Ready to say
I'm glad to be alive
I'm ready
Ready for the push

Yeah, man, bring on the laughing gas, ‘cause I need it, sitting here looking out the black glass of the windows and I’m cold, cold, man COLD all the freakin’ time. Winter I know, so cold is part and parcel, in the package, a standard feature so to speak. I could use some laughs because I’m down, “in the weeds” one might say. Being tired all the time has that effect.

I’ve been ducking for the better part of my life now, whew, I’m a regular mallard. Ready to duck, ready to dive, yeah goddamn right I’m glad to be alive. What’s the alternative? Still, I sit and think and write and I wonder what is the reason to put my feet on the floor. I pretend I don’t know the answer but I really do. Being on the back of the tiger is what makes me put ‘em on the floor. I like the tiger, all that muscle and bone and sinew, and the power coursing through its veins, especially when it gets angry, riled up as we used to say, and that makes him dangerous.

But being dangerous in some ways is also BEING ALIVE. Ain’t no one, no one on this green earth that can live without being dangerous in some way. This is an Unavoidable Fact of Existence. But the difference being, is it good dangerous or is it bad dangerous? I prefer to be good dangerous, i.e. taking risk for a greater good. Doing the Risk/Benefit analysis, just like they taught me in school (and what as my blessed parents tried to teach me as a wee lad) to determine if your “Benefit” is great enough to outweigh your “Risks”.

As the saying goes, “Before you try beating the odds, make sure you can survive the odds beating you.” A mantra, I says.

So I stare out the window into the black night, looking for stars, and asking myself if I can beat the odds. Am I ready for the push, man, the push that will send me out the door of the plane. I’m scared, man, scared, but that not so little voice in the back of my head says “Do it. The pressure is on, and this is the push you need, if you wanna survive.” I want to survive.

The ghost reflected in the glass mouths the words to me, “I’m ready for the push.” I’m ready.

Ready for the shuffle
Ready for the deal
Ready to let go
Of the steering wheel
I'm ready
Ready for the crush
Let go of the steering wheel? Did I ever have it in my sweaty, nervous hands? Ha, I used to think I did. I used to think I was the Man, the shizznit, like I had a direct line to the molten hot center of the Earth feeding me power. I could open my mouth and drink deep of liquid rock and metal, yeah, man, ‘cause I was fuckin’ indestructible. Gold plated and bullet proof! Nothing I couldn’t do, no mountain I couldn’t climb, because I was The Man. And I didn’t need any help, thank you very much. I could do all this because I was Superman.

And it was all bullshit, you see, because I not only jumped on that bobsled to hell I was greasing the skids. Because I was in control and no one was going to take that away from me. And no one did. See, I was right. No person took it away. It was the Universe what took it from me.

So I keep staring out the black window, cold air peeling in sheets down the glass, curling around my hands and legs and spiraling its way to wrap my heart. All the while I carefully avoid the Bottle sitting on the edge of the desk, its contents mocking me daring me to pick it up, yeah, man just pour a finger or three or maybe your whole goddamn hand, because you need help. And the bottle says “I might be just the fellow to give you that help, you pathetic bee-yotch, because you know there is no chance, like snowball vs. hell kinda chance you can do this all by yourself”.

My hand trembles, fingers flex a bit as the impulse shivers its way from the dilapidated Control Center of my brain, and just for a second I consider that the bottle may be right. Just for a second. I may be tired and all edgy and stuff, but I am not stupid.

The bottle is right on one count: I can’t do this all by myself. But I can’t control it all myself, either. Control is what nearly killed me, put me on this path, made me think that all this time I was the one calling the shots. I was driving The Car, right? Yeah, right. Careening through a black void tunnel I didn’t know was a tunnel and telling myself the entire time I could see in the dark. That lasted until finally I hit the wall. Hit the wall like a comet slamming into a mountain, or a meteor crashing into a house. Yeah, and all the while my hands were on the steering wheel. What a joke. Evel Knievel was my spiritual twin. So, my relationship with control is a little on the hate side, you know? Crawling from the wreckage, alone and bleeding, the Voice shouting in my ear: time to let go, let go of the steering wheel.

Alright, alright, alright, alright, alright
It's alright... it's alright ... it's alright ... it's alright
Hey baby... hey baby ... hey baby ... hey baby ...
It's alright
It's alright

Who said that? Okay, maybe its alright, but baby, why do I feel so goddamned alone? Answer me that, Man in The Glass. Man? I squint. He’s looking a little different. Head is blockier than it was, ears have changed. He smiles, and the fucker has some fangs. Not little mousey type fangs, I mean thick as an index finger, two-inch long ‘effin man-killer type fangs. He’s got spots all over his head and neck, and his outline is getting all blurry. Shit, man, shit don’t go all shaman on me, don’t you know I got work to do? Some serious dollar-chasin’ to accomplish?

He just grins. He says, no, he growls to me: I know you feel alone, just make sure you go chasing in the right direction. This ain’t no Buddhist Eight-Fold Path smack talkin’, it’s your Truth right here, right now. What’s it gonna be? Which path, right or not-right? And you do know the answer, you just won’t face up to it. You, my friend, need to unleash the beast. Otherwise, you might as well just lay down, start crying and sucking your thumb. Oh, and shut up about it. You are going to get sick of that whiny voice in your ear, like a cosmic mosquito reminding you that you missed the train.

Time is a train
Makes the future the past
Leaves you standing in the station
Your face pressed up against the glass

Shit. My face is pressed up against the glass, when did that happen? Wet with sweat or tears, I don’t know. Leaning against that cold, black plate and wondering just how hard I would have to press before the glass shatters and my head crashes through it with shards digging into my neck and I writhe frantically slick with blood and screaming at the freezing winter air, and I push and push like a animal gone crazy with pain and I stretch my arms out in front of me, but they aren’t arms anymore they are legs ending in paws. Big paws with obsidian daggers poking out from the tips, and the scream turns into a howl, a roar at the top of my lungs, and my ears twitch as I hear the brakes release on that train I can see at the platform at the bottom of the hill and through the trees and I run, run like the beast that I am I can feel the muscles working and the blood pulsing, and it feels like LIFE. The train starts to pull away and I can see there is an open window not too far away and I heave a sobbing breath, my muscles contracting in a painful spasm and I launch myself at that open window, the Gateway to The New, the blood, the pain all falling away and the sky goes white. The train seems to blur or is that me as I leap and I tell myself, I’ll make it, I’ll make it, I have to, Life and Love are waiting there…

I'm just down the line from your love ... Zoo Station
Under the sign of your love ... Zoo Station
I'm gonna be there ... Zoo Station
Tracing the line ... Zoo Station
I'm gonna make it on time ... make it on time ... Zoo Station
Just two stops down the line ... Zoo Station
Just a stop down the line ... Zoo Station
(Italicized paragraphs are lyrics from “Zoo Station” by U2, from ‘Achtung Baby’)