by Cary Tennis
From what, what was my primal escape drama, the root thing from which I am always fleeing, that I wanted to flee since I was a child? Tedium and waste, the waste of lives, the cowardly waste, letting life slip by, I thought of it as cowardly anyway, that people could just go on with their lives without trying to break free, without at least looking on the other side of the river, without curiosity. And like Henderson the Rain King, I Want, I Want, I Want … I wanted so much! I wanted beatniks, broadway shows, television lights, underground comics, wild-eyed communists and revolutionaries, bombers and anarchists, fancy sluts and trannies in dive bars, Dominicans … the Dominican Republic I mean, and acid trips in vans, long cross-country trips, saying hello to the nation, its beauty its vastness, the promise of America, as if not to do this was not to have gratitude to the founders of American democracy, those restless folks who set this up, who set it rolling, this magical place which for all its flaws is still a rocking beacon, a strange loud lighthouse to the world, a place where you can be anybody, where you don’t register with the police when you move into an apartment, where you can choose your religion and your friends and family. Escape! The French poets! The Expressionists! The gypsies and wanderers! Hippie dreams! It is the duty of every prisoner to attempt escape. Isn’t that true? Every prisoner of love, of law and school, of wealth or poverty, every prisoner of boredom and doubt, of ignorance and want, it is the duty of every prisoner to attempt escape, and also to only reveal name, rank and serial number is that not right? It is our duty not to reveal state secrets or the secrets of our comrades, our friends, those who let us sleep on couches and tell no one where we are, those who lie on our behalf to the police, who lie on our behalf to the parents who seek to return us to captivity! Escape is no crime. It is a duty.
