THE MEN INSIDE THE ENCLOSURE
My father conquered the moon
Or more specifically… the moon is where my father raped my mother. That rape resulted in my tumultuous birth. I exited the womb screaming in an ancient language. Or so I was told; the moon is full of liars, after all. I was also told my skin was covered in numbers tattooed on my newly formed skin. But the numbers are no longer visible.
I was born in Crater Number 58493 which is also known by the moniker Watkins after the astrophysicist Gerrold Watkins who contributed much to the colonization of the moon. I know nothing about the man personally but I have learned about him in my schooling since most of our lunar education is based around the discovery of our surroundings and mostly involves the individuals responsible for these monumental and spectacular discoveries and the furthering of innovations that have helped to civilize the moon with “communities” with people, like me, who knew nothing about our origins other than some briefly-told tales about an oceanic orb that is currently in self-destruct mode. Why would anyone still want to live there? I don’t know.
I’ve always questioned this but had never gotten a reasonable response from my instructors. They always found a way to change the subject to something more concrete. They’d start talking about Gerrold Watkins or Francine di Natale, the architect of the Lunar Condos, those beautiful examples of lunar-mod design. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t get distracted and lose my train of thought. That happened to me many times. It still happens, obviously. One thing leads to another and another and the way we think transforms our memories into semi-factual blueprints of future stories. My schooling has done much to perpetuate this process and by this process I have been able to develop skills that go beyond mere remembrance. It is as if I can witness firsthand the violation of my mother and the violent ejaculation of my father. It is within this remote viewing of my conception that I become saddened with the realization that we truly have not conquered the moon in its entirety. Even so, I enjoy learning about Watkins and di Natale and all the others. I enjoy learning about the science behind our society.
But behind all of this there is still that hovering shadow of my father and what I have seen of his behavior, his spirit, his actions that go beyond mere action almost into a realm of anti-action and everything he has said and done beyond my experience and beyond my mother’s experience has coalesced into a massive shadow that has blocked out the stars. Perhaps he has destroyed planets or space colonies or any other remnant of humanity’s chaotic and destructive virus program. My father spilled his seed throughout the celestial sperm bank and I can only imagine the fallout from his ejaculatory spite.
I don’t care to talk about him anymore.
My father, the conqueror.
My father, the rapist.
My father, the astronaut.
I had only met him very briefly when I was six years old. He had stopped by to visit my mother. He barely gave me a glance. His hatred was obvious. He had no interest in what his sperm had produced. He only visited my mother because there was some trace of guilt inside of him for the burden he had left her with.
Or at least that’s my theory. Of course I could never know for sure. He had never verbalized that to anyone and even if he did, who was to know if he was lying? After all, everyone on the moon is prone to dishonesty.
Anyway, the guilt quickly turned to resentment and the visit consisted of verbal, mental, and physical abuse directed towards my mother. Being only six years old, there was nothing I could do but watch the violence. I recorded it onto a memory program in order to watch it again later. Why? By now I realize that even at that age, I was fascinated by what kind of human my father was in comparison to my mother and me.
Was this the astronaut who is widely praised throughout the colonies?
Yes, it is the same man but in some ways NOT the same man.
I felt bad for my mother, yes, but in a way I thought she could have done something to protect herself from the man. She was taller and heavier than he was and had always possessed an aggressive demeanor. Why had she been willing to accept the abuse? The fact that she did made me less inclined to comfort her in times of distress (and there were many). She was weak, voluntarily so. I hated that. In fact, I hated HER.
But my father…
I don’t know how I feel about my father. Who really understands their own origin? No one, I suppose. There is a tendency for one to speculate on what sort of unique development birthed their present state but that speculation usually has more to do with a visionary urge to appear substantially exceptional than with a seriously-researched foundation in reality.
I have no such misconceptions or delusions about what or who I am and where I may or may not have come from whether it is my immediate birth parents or my elusive ancestors. Biology is a funny thing and even more so, it’s an unreliable thing. People, in general, are unreliable. I will be the first to admit that. Biology, we’ve been taught, is the most untrustworthy science of all. There’s no foundation that can be built upon to make biology something to rely on. Let’s face it. We even struggle to keep ourselves alive without having to create delusions of blood flow and oxygen intake. Nothing about us is certain. My thoughts simply do not form into coherent biological artifacts that are ready to be studied or dissected or analyzed. It’s not that it hasn’t been attempted. The psychseer in my Lunar Condo had tried her hardest to delve into the machinations of my inmost functioning but failed every time. I blame my father, of course. Who wouldn’t? I yell, ‘Rapist!’ into the lunar wind and forget my own structures for living under control.
I’ve since decided to conquer the moon in my own way. If I can usurp my father… then perhaps I can understand the conceptions and misconceptions that have ballooned past the point of vulgarity. I have some serious work to do.
And now I need to pay a visit to my mother.