shadows and dust

Antique stores are depressing. Sure, there’s the odd thing here and there that contains a kind of beauty, or at least it holds a memory, a history, but most of the contents of an antique store are nothing but unwanted discards from people who’ve moved on —people who grew tired of the clutter, or survivors trying to make a buck off their dead relative’s junk. I look at these things and I don’t see them happily placed in someone’s home, I see them in a land fill, half-covered with steaming debris under the occasional shade of an overpassing seagull. They’re also depressing because the junk, sorry, the “treasure,” is exiled from the place where the spirit of the owner may still remain. How’s a lonely ghost to dance when her cherished Victrola is priced ready to sell at Uncle Joe’s Antique Emporium? Is she ripped apart, with some of her spirit in the home and a piece of her clinging to the record player? Back in the days of radio broadcasts, disc jockeys would interrupt their nearly constant Halloween rotation of “Witchy Woman,” “Bad Moon Rising,” “Monster Mash,” and “Black Magic Woman” with an occasional confab staring a spooky celebrity or they would conjure up some ghoulish banter between a couple of on-air personalities. But this Halloween, Rock 106 pauses its worn-out playlist to feature an interview with a certified exorcist from the Church of England. Being your average student, I have nothing better to do than spend an hour or so listening to the exorcist speak of rites, rituals, and strange occurrences in the spirit realm. While I’m listening, my thoughts turn to a grainy photograph that has been circulating around campus of a supposed ghost caught in the reflection of a mirror located in the mansion that serves as the centerpiece of our campus. So, when the interview is over, I call the radio station, identify myself as a reporter from the campus newspaper, and ask for the exorcist’s contact information. They give it to me. One can do such things in the days of radio. Her voice echoes on the other end of the line. I imagine her standing in the middle of a gothic corridor that stretches dark and dank into oblivion. I ask her if she thinks our mansion is haunted. She says that she is certain of it and asks if the spirits are disturbed or are causing any trouble. I tell her no; they seem to be docile. She says that we should leave them be then, that they’re just reliving their lives and enjoying themselves. Before hanging up, she tells me that she has just received a recording of an angelic choir captured by accident in a church near the Beaney House of Art and Knowledge in Canterbury and asks if I’d like to come to her home to hear it. I decline. Being the photographer for the campus newspaper, I feel it is my duty to first scientifically determine if the photograph of the ghost is real or just some sort of mass onset of group pareidolia. So, I gather some willing accomplices and enter the mansion through secretive means in the middle of the night. We find the mirror in a room upstairs and I search for patterns on the wall that might be mistaken for a ghost by minds eager to put human form to random stains or shadows. I find none. But when I compare the scene to the picture that I’ve brought along with me for reference, I find the mirror is missing something—a mantle clock. We search the mansion and find that it’s been moved to a downstairs fireplace. We set up the corrected scene. The mirror is in its proper position, mantle clock is in place, everything is in order. I snap several shots and head for the darkroom. As the image slowly appears, I believe I see that same ghostly image that is in the original photograph. I fix and wash my picture and hang it up. And there it is; a transparent formal dress from the early 19th century. No face, no head or arms, just the dress. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what the exorcist would think. But I decide that the most plausible explanation is that objects like mirrors, fireplaces, and mantle clocks can record a kind of energy that produce faint images when exposed to film processes. That’s my science and I’m sticking to it. Eddie is unsure why the little shack he’s standing in causes him to feel uneasy. But he has an idea that he feels nauseous due to the fact that he can’t account for recent gaps in time and place and now he stands in a room from the distant past that seems to float in a heavy bright fog. He feels the presence of people who have once stood where he is standing, who have sat in that chair and cooked in that fireplace. He looks around the tiny room and can almost make out their faces as they stare blankly at him as if from a great distance. A child by the fire eating a potato fades in and fades out.

tree

The tree is symbol rich. The tree of life, the tree of knowledge, the tree of human kindness and connection, the list goes on. Think of something good and there is probably a tree that symbolizes that thing. We have a complicated relationship with trees. I’ve never understood the appeal of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. It’s a sad tale about unconditional sacrifice for an ungrateful human that’s read to children. It feels like it’s designed to be read by angry parents punishing their offspring for not saying thank you enough. And speaking of chopping down trees, there’s Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. It heralded a revolution. And, of course, The Lorax by Dr. Seuss. I think those things were trees. Hard to tell. There are other unspeakable uses: the hangings, lynchings, and crucifixions. We also build with trees, burn trees for warmth, and climb trees just for fun. But there is this one tree that stands as a sentry to some other place, a place of confinement.  This tree creates its own atmosphere. This tree is aware of you. Once you pass it, you are not where you were.

rough waking

He feels light brushing against his forehead and a crawling sensation on the interior of his left nostril before he opens his eyes to find himself lying in a meadow. Faint curtains of fog billow across rows of tall pines. Pretty little yellow blossoms dot the soft grasses that have been his bed for the night. Next, he thinks of the bugs: chiggers, fleas, mosquitos, ticks and spiders. How many attacked him while he slept? How many are attached now and stealing his blood? He hears movement. There’s a shadow.

Dani: Finally. I thought you were going to sleep all day.

Eddie: Where’s the boat?

Dani: On the water.

Eddie: I don’t remember how we got here.

Dani: The mushrooms.

Eddie: I didn’t have mushrooms.

Dani: “I can see the ley lines, look at the beautiful ley lines.”

Eddie: I didn’t eat mushrooms, what are you talking about?

Dani: You’re so full of it. You had a fist full. Started communing with ethereal beings and shit. I had to chase you half the night. We’re lucky we landed where we did.

Eddie: Where?

Dani: We’re safe here for now. There’s a cabin up the way by the tree. You’ll stay there a couple of days while I sort some things.

Eddie: I’m staying where? Wait, sort some things?

Dani: You’ll be fine, don’t worry. You’ll want to be with me when this is over. Trust me. I’m not joking.

dreams of steel

Eddie goes below, lies down and falls relentlessly to sleep. He’s in the back of a car. Someone is smoking. His throat closes in the way it did whenever his dad smoked in the ‘57 Bel Air. He takes short gulps of air. There’s a woman talking in the front seat about the terrible loss of steel manufacturing in the United States but then she’s on top of him, kissing him. They’re startled by a sound outside. It’s another car. They watch as two men begin hammering a steel I-beam. The woman, he can’t make out her face, says that they hammer the steel to make a loud sound. He wants to know who she is, but her face changes every time she turns her head a different direction. She grabs a can and begins spray painting a demon onto a wall. The men laugh at first. The paint dries, the demon stares, the men die. The woman begins to sing. She floats in midair like an angel. Her song is the most beautiful thing. She knows everything. He hopes she won’t tell. Realizing he’s nothing but a machine to be operated by her, he tries to run but he’s paralyzed by her song. He's not sure how long it will go on, but he wants it to last forever. It might. He doesn’t understand why the song is slowing, or why things are stretching and turning blue, but he feels like he’s being pulled into a shrinking swirl of dark. He panics. It’s one of those. It’s always the same thing. He’s looking for something, he goes into a room, and then another. Each room gets smaller and smaller until he can barely move and then he realizes he’s in a tiny space with no doors at all and no way to escape.

a home with a view

Disguised as a sweet little home, the panopticon is perched atop a tower sufficient to provide views up and down the river and up and down the tracks—up and down all the lands between. The official voyeur spends his time between meals/sleeping/scrolling/game playing, eyeing the comings and goings of targeted individuals through worn and greasy binoculars. He receives a notification from fellow onlookers when a suspect travels nearby. There’s one about every two miles or so scattered along the route that undesirables often transit. Without a warning from his buddies, he would miss the targets in favor of watching a dispatch from his favorite influencer or feeding his digital barnyard pets. His notification tone is set to the song “Rubber Duckie,” which is surprising given his girth, grizzled visage, bald head, and perpetually dirty skin and clothes. Perhaps the song is aspirational, or it could be an intentional irritant like those who set their tones to that extremely loud fire station alert. “Rubber Duckie” might set his rabid mind ablaze at the thought of a bathtub full of clean water. His name is Gus Stone. You may have read him. He’s published vast troves of critical scholarship on postmodernity. His favorite building was the Binoculars Building before Google bought it. Now he grumbles it’s the Weston Bonaventure Hotel and has always been so. He claims of dreaming of staying there if he is ever allowed to leave his little perched house. Truth is, nobody keeps him there. He’s a true voyeur and is only trapped by his need to watch. As the boat floats within Gus’ gaze, Eddie emerges from his below deck hiding.

Eddie: (gesturing toward the house above) Location, location, location.

Dani: It’s all about the view.

Eddie: It’s probably abandoned, right?

Dani: No.

Eddie: Oh.

Dani: It’s a railroad worker. A guy named Gus or something, used to be a preacher at the First Church of the Possible. Now he watches the rails, makes sure the trains are where the machines say they are.

Eddie: Sounds like new age mumbo jumbo.

Dani: Mumbo Jumbo is a man dressed up as a god who beats his wife while his other wives laugh at her.

Eddie: Hey, the next time we pull up at a dock I think I’m going to try my luck walking a bit.

Dani: Had a friend who went to the First Church of the Possible every Sunday. He said it was the thinking man’s religion. For people smart enough to know they don’t know shit.

Eddie: So, is that okay? I mean, I’m glad, you know, to have, glad that you’ve allowed, it’s just that I’m, I think I might be better on dry land.

Dani: Anything’s possible. There could be some god that started this whole chaotic mess billions of years ago, or it could be that I’m just an NPC in a simulation you don’t even realize you’re playing.

Eddie: Is there a dock we can tie up to up here somewhere?

Dani: I know what you’re looking for. I’ve got a place for you.

Eddie: Actually, I’m more of a loner.

Dani: Eddie, you’re stuck with me. I’ve got a plan. You are a part of my plan. So, shut the fuck up and relax.

the water farm

Humans aren’t the only criminals in the animal kingdom. Theft, murder, kidnapping, torture, you name it, it’s all being done by degenerates of all species. Just look around. Luckily there’s a prison for dogs, cats, birds, snakes, and raccoons gone bad. Fish too. Their part is under water. Oh, you know there must be criminal gangs of sharks and piranhas. There’s somewhere between one and thirteen million different kinds of animals out there and every type has its bad apple. This particular animal prison is made from an old, flooded dam. It’s a bit run down but suits its purpose. A perfect location for air-breathers to cohabitate with their criminal watery brethren. No human person asks questions; they assume the hulking structure is empty. But at night, when it’s quiet, you can hear animal misery if you pass by close enough. A certain breed of dogs guards the place. There’s only one yellow light strung on a rusty pole planted in the junk pile that was once a parking lot. As Eddie wonders why Dani chose to anchor here for the night, he hears a loud and sudden metallic thud echoing through the building. His thoughts turn to what type of animal criminal might try to escape. The dogs are quiet though. In Eddie’s experience, a quiet dog bites. He’s comforted by the fact that he’s on a boat. But many animals can swim, especially the fish ones. He remembers his diver friend telling him that he was once standing on the river bottom while inspecting a dam when the river bottom moved. When he looked to see why, he realized he’d been standing on a catfish the size of a city bus. Eddie wonders if that catfish ever committed a crime.

arresting place

There’s an ancient quality to rivers and mountains. Of course, anything that’s millions of years in the making is ancient, but there’s a feeling of being old, being tired, being worn that emanates from these landscapes. The emotion is musty and damp, rusted and caked with years of grime. It’s as if the scene is weary of time and ready to dissolve into nothingness. The river is an old man who is tired of living and welcomes death, but death is beyond his reach, so he moves on, never stopping to rest, never going anywhere, just getting older and older. Eddie thinks to himself, “This is probably a good spot to die.”

dangerous waters

Fisher: I’m Fisher. I work on the river, my name’s Fisher and I don’t fish, so, fuck off.

Dani: (to Eddie) He’s Fisher.

Eddie: (to Fisher) I’m…

Dani: Eddie.

Eddie: Yeah, Eddie, I’m sorry, I was, I dosed off a minute ago.

Fisher: (ignoring Eddie) I could use a beer.

Dani: Eddie?

Eddie: Just the one?

Dani: Yeah.

Eddie goes below to retrieve a beer. Fisher and Dani remain silent until he returns.

Eddie: (handing the beer to Fisher) So, you work on a barge?

Fisher: Yeah.

Eddie: Seems like an interesting job.

Fisher: If you like standing still while the world splits down the middle.

Eddie: Do you call the whole thing a barge, or is it a tug pushing barges? I never know… I’ll, I’m going to go up front and let you two talk. You know each other, right?

Dani: We’ve got some stuff to talk about so…

Eddie: Yeah, well, I’ll be up there if you need me or anything.

Eddie moves to the bow of the boat but not so far away as to prohibit him from hearing their conversation. Dani is sitting at the captain’s station facing Fisher who is leaning against the cockpit doorway. The water is still. There’s only the occasional splash of ripples and the hum of engines to conceal their words.

Fisher: Edna tells me you walk a lot.

Dani: Driving, mostly.

Fisher: When’s the last time you made pie?

Dani: I don’t really do that on Sundays anymore. There’s always a bird around, splashing.

Fisher: What kind of bird?

Dani: Blue jays mostly, sometimes a cardinal, an occasional dove.

Fisher: Them jays are smart.

Dani: They’ll take your babies.

Fisher: I got the green eye.

Dani: Sorry to hear that. How long?

Fisher: Eighteen yards.

Dani: And Piper?

Fisher: Which?

Dani: Red.

Fisher: Dead.

Dani: So, sliced cabbage or sausage?

Fisher: Piper wants the cabbage.

Dani: Which?

Fisher: Ruby.

Dani: Just so it’s not Crimson.

Fisher: Crimson’s a bastard.

Dani: Heartless bastard.

Fisher: So, you playing or what?

Dani: Always do.

Fisher: On my way then.

Dani: I’ll catch up with you when it’s done.

Fisher: I don’t have long.

Dani: The green eye.

Fisher: Got to go do the split.

Dani: Tell Piper I won’t be long.

Fisher: Fuck Piper.

Dani: Which one?

Fisher: All of them.

Fisher crawls over to the barge. Dani pulls away and begins to move upstream. Eddie sits still and quiet and tries to convince himself that he misheard their entire exchange.

deerfly morning

He sits looking into the sunrise trying to understand why the world has taken on a patina of strangeness, almost like the slow opening of a horror picture show. He wants to clear his mind of it, but he likes horror, not to live, to watch. So, the setting or the rising of the sun behind silhouetted outlines that point like cardboard cutouts toward a sky busy with silver linings, matches his comforting dread. It all fits. He’s where he should not be. He’s thoroughly lost. He squints at the claustrophobic expanse hoping to find a way out of the trap. He struggles to breathe. It doesn’t make sense to him that all this sky, this yawn of land should make him feel trapped but he wants a magic knife to cut a hole in the sky so he can breathe.  No matter where he turns, there’s always something hovering at his back. He doesn’t want to see it. He wants to run from it. He wants to slash the membrane of this world and breathe into the next. He fears there’s no space large enough. The universe is a confining bubble. But he can run. So, he does. He’s traveling still, and that describes a distance that feels like space.  Something is biting him. Something flying around. He catches glimpses, hears the buzz of soft wings, sees black dots. He feels them try to get into his mouth, his eyes, his ears. They swarm him. The numbers are horrendous. He swats at them with frantic flailing arms and hands like the screaming madman who lived on his block back when he was free to judge others. The swarm is relentless. It begins to take on the form of something solid and malicious. He opens his eyes. Relieved it was one of those dream-like states that thud into his brain when he toggles between awake and asleep. He’s relived he’s in another world and floating. But she’s at the helm and she’s coming along side of a stranger.

river wide

Eddie: Wouldn’t it be great if the river was like the air and you could see down to the bottom and everything in between?

Dani: You’d run screaming.

Eddie: I’m not afraid of heights.

Dani: And depths?

Eddie: I can swim, a little.

Dani: But within the depths.

Eddie: Oh yeah, river monsters, right?

Dani: You’d be surprised.

Eddie: I’ve been to aquariums.

Dani: I like floating. Floating on air, floating on water, it’s nearly the same thing.

Eddie: Do you have any floats or…

Dani: Pool toys? Noodles, inner tubes, water wings?

Eddie: Like, floats? I feel like jumping in.

Dani: It’s river water.

Eddie: We’ve seen people skiing.

Dani: We’ve seen idiots skiing.

Eddie: I’m sure it’s fine.

Dani: Let’s get upstream of the sewer plant first.

Eddie: Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Have you decided where you’re going?

Dani: I’ve always known where I’m going.

Eddie: Oh, so, where?

Dani: Like they say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

Eddie: I think I’d enjoy the journey more if I knew the destination.

Dani: No, you wouldn’t.

A line of steel emerges from a bend. It’s row upon row of barges ladened with coal and it seems to need more than the full width of the river to make the turn. Eddie is confused. Dani remains calm as she slows her speed and steers starboard. There’s a man standing on one of the barges. He’s waving. Dani eases her craft towards the waving man.  We’ll find out soon enough, his name is Fisher.

morning locks

He’s surprised how comfortable and roomy her boat is. He wonders why he’d never thought to live on a boat before. He begins to feel calm, but he immediately worries about the calm feeling and in so doing, sets off a relentless oscillation between calm, worry, dread, and guilt. The guilt, of course comes from his almost constant internal battle about whether or not to tell her his real name.

Dani: Nice, huh.

Eddie: Very. How long have you had it?

Dani: Ah, the boat. Not long.

Eddie: So, you live here?

Dani: When I’m on the water.

Eddie: Makes sense. What did you think/

Dani: I was talking about the fog.

Eddie: Oh yeah.

Dani: We talked about the boat last night.

Eddie: I just, I was thinking about it again.

Dani: And you thought I could read your mind.

Eddie: Is it dangerous? The fog?

Dani: Not when you’re slow. I love the fog. So useful: foggy memory, brain fog, lost in a fog, a blanket of fog, pea soup…

Eddie: Fog of war.

Dani: Fog of war, yeah, that one. (pause) Fog is art, it’s mystery. It’s metaphor.

Eddie: I don’t care for metaphors.

Dani: I know, you hate them. I’ll fix you. Poor thing.

Eddie: Where does this river end?

Dani: It doesn’t. I mean, yes, technically speaking, it does become something else, but, practically speaking, we can go anywhere in the world that has a port from right here.

Eddie: So, it empties into the ocean.

Dani: It travels to the ocean and to all the unblocked tributaries that feed all the oceans on the planet.

Eddie: That’s a lot.

Dani: But for now, we’re just using it to get out of town.

Eddie: Like they do in the movies.

Dani: This is real life, sweetheart.

Eddie: Funny.

Dani: No, seriously, this is real.

the place where

I’m not really going anywhere,” he answers. She considers him for some time before she announces, “Hi, I’m Dani.” He makes up a name and quickly blurts out, “I’m Eddie.” Hmm, not a good name for you, you should probably change it,” she says without any hint of normal human filters.

Dani: Wanna see something kinda cool?

Eddie: I’m just…walking.

Dani: Walk over here.

Eddie: No, I’m good. Thanks.

Dani: Have you always been scared?

Eddie: It’s just…

Dani: You’re scared.

Eddie: I don’t know you and, you know, not supposed to talk to strangers and all that.

Dani: You don’t look nine.

Eddie: Ok, I’m gonna…

Dani: (a beat) Gonna what?

Eddie: Where?

Dani: Just over here. It’s a tree.

Eddie: A tree.

Dani: Yeah but it’s so cool. (a beat) I’ll show you.

Eddie: I, I like trees.

Dani: Then you’ll love this one.

Eddie: You’re not going to murder me or anything.

Dani: Funny you should say that.

Eddie: Yeah? (a pause) You said it’s funny.

Dani: There it is.

Eddie: Oh, it’s just over here.

Dani: Like I said.

Eddie: It’s a tree.

Dani: They do rituals around it.

Eddie: Who’s they?

Dani: How should I know, I’m not the religious nut.

Eddie: How do you know?

Dani: Contrary to popular belief, if you’re a nut, you know it.

Eddie: No, how do you know “they” do rituals here?

Dani: Well, just look at it, I mean. Obvious.

Eddie: Yeah.

Dani: There’s a lot of symbolism in trees.

Eddie: (a beat) I don’t like symbolism.

Dani: You don’t like symbolism.

Eddie: Hate it.

Dani: How do you hate symbolism?

Eddie: I prefer the thing to the symbol.

Dani: That makes no sense at all. We’ve got to get your life put back together, Eddie, or whatever your name is.

Eddie: Eddie, it’s Eddie.

Dani: For now. Anyway, they found a body here the other day.

Eddie: “They” do a lot of work around here.

Dani: The police, asshole.

Eddie: Do you live here?

Dani: Under the bridge?

Eddie: Well…

Dani: Do I smell like I live here?

Eddie: I don’t, I’m not sure how a person…

Dani: I keep up, you know, with things. You’ve got a whole fantasy life going on in there, huh.

Eddie: Well, I mean, you were up in the corner…

Dani: And that’s where trolls live, right?

Eddie: I probably should get going.

Dani: On your walk to nowhere?

Eddie: Yeah.

Dani: Fine. Have you thought about floating instead?

Eddie: Did you want to tell me something about the body?

Dani: No, not really.

underbridge

Breaking from the pull of the sidewalk, he finds himself under a bridge. The sound is louder here, resonating in the default chambers of bridge support. He notices a figure tucked into the vertex of retaining wall and bridge. She unfolds herself and slides down in such a focused way that he begins to plot his retreat. But as the image of her reveals itself, he reconsiders. “Where are you going?” she asks. This is an unreasonable request, he thinks to himself. He obviously has no means of transport other than his own body. But she seems damaged—a weakness for him.

shadow self

He stops, sees his shadow lying flat on broken concrete, his mind paints the scene. The colors are invasive, like unwanted species they come uninvited into a world to which they don’t belong. He reminds himself to keep on task, but he remembers he has none. Walking is the thing. A church bell struggles to be heard amidst the traffic din. Church was a prison when he was younger. He’s not sure he ever escaped. The weight of memory chains tug at him from time to time and remind him that he gave up so much of his life there. He’ll never get that back. He’s angry about that. Best not to dwell on the past. It takes up too much of the present. That kind of thinking is also a prison.

on the road

He's walking now. The street winds his insides tight. It’s much too loud with tires ringing and the screams from boy’s exhausts desperately trying to prove their nonexistent manhood. “This should be good for me,” he attempts to convince himself. He knows better. This walk is not about feeling good. It’s about getting from here to there. He’s walking with purpose but without a goal. No time to meander or to consider the danger. He walks and tries to keep his mind on fantasies of how things might have been. The noise is too much though, and he really shouldn’t be indulging those thoughts anyway. His life is good as it is, for all he knows.  He sees a figure in the distance, and he fights back an impulse to be afraid. He can be a coward sometimes, but he’s walking now. At least he’s walking.

threshold people

I meet you where the world falls away. It’s quiet here but it might as well be deafening.  In this vast place your words lose their meaning. What matters here is this moment of connection. Our feelings don’t count either. Who knows what they are anyway? Feelings are often indescribable colors bleeding into one another. Fresh wounds, old scars, consoling embraces—none of that matters. We’re here now. We’re in this world where everything falls away—except our connection. It’s only here where we see each other with a sight beyond what our eyes provide. Nothing else gets in the way. I wish we could stay here, but we’re not allowed. Time is warped here but the world can only fall away for a moment. Distractions will flood back in, and we will return to the normal world of details. For now, let’s see only that thing that keeps us connected.

wires

There is a US government-built spacecraft more than 15 billion miles away from us traveling at 38,000 miles per hour. It was launched 47 years ago when Jimmy Carter was President of the United States. Voyager 1 is still collecting data. It operates electronically. And, obviously, there is not a single wire connecting it to conEdison, Exelon, Duke Energy, or any of the countless for-profit electrical companies that enjoy near-monopolies in most areas. My question is this: if great minds can engineer a still-functional electric vehicle that can travel 15 billion miles over forty-seven years, why are we still stringing wires on poles that fall and break whenever there’s a big wind or ice storm, or spark and cause devastating fires and then fall and break? I’m sure there are a thousand rational reasons to continue to use this often dangerous and mostly ugly century-old technology. I know nothing about electrical transmission or its infrastructure. So I’m left with my convenient theories and one of my theories is that profits in the pockets of energy executives and political campaign accounts might have more to do with our inability to engineer safe, sustainable, point-of-use power systems than we care to acknowledge. I have power lines in my backyard that fail every time we have a hurricane or energetic windstorm. My more affluent neighbors have the wires underground. That’s some improvement (for the wealthy). The only point-of-use systems around me are gas-powered generators that drone on endlessly after an outage. The giant pylon beasts that march single file through our forests, our lakes, our neighborhoods seem inevitable, unstoppable. Are we made to see them as a juggernaut when they’re really only a scheme of short-term convenience?  Are there only Quixotic actions of resistance lowly citizens can take against these behemoths? Greater minds must answer. For now, I’ll try not to admire the beauty of their form as they stride into a distant vanishing point.

tongues in trees

Duke Senior was the rightful duke of the land but was forced by his brother to live in exile in the Forest of Arden. While there, Duke Senior embraced his predicament and found comfort in the natural wonders surrounding him.

He was a meek duke.

If stones could preach, what would be the lesson? One entitled “The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth” is my guess. All creatures great and small practice meekness, many humans, on the other hand, do not. The meaning of the word as it was used in the original sermon relates to a quality of adaptation or flexibility. Nature’s creatures have already inherited the earth, so it makes sense they would want to teach us that bit of wisdom. A plant, for example, senses the light is pooling in an area a distance off, so it reaches toward it. A puma hears the buzzing of new construction, so it finds a new habitat.

Meekness is a strength, a wisdom, a subtle force. In humans it manifests itself through openness, compassion, and vulnerability. It’s the opposite of rigidity, aggression, and certainty. The meek embrace ambiguity and are comfortable with liminality. They see beauty and potential in the shadows. They know that when they stare into a forest of trees, grasses, and ponds, there are thousands of eyes starring back. And they’re okay with that because they find “good in everything.”

sand beast

The drifter reaches to return to the sea. Too much weight here. Sure, there aren’t as many parasites and hangers-on but there’s no cost that can outweigh the pleasures of weightlessness . On sand, limbs are stiff and terribly heavy. Fog is a deceit. It is water, but a kind of water that’s full of gravity. There’s no seeing where the land ends. The drifter remembers a time when it was anchored by gravity, pulled toward “the heart of the world.” It has surrendered to “earth’s intelligence” and lived its life fully grounded.  That time is gone. It’s time to float on that strong ocean current. But it’s held in place by the sand and there’s nothing to be done but wait. So, for now, the drifter stays and waits for the water to come and redeliver it to the weightless world.

the LZ

Something about aliens. They’re fun. Little green men, big eyes, funny walk. Everybody loves them. You know this because, when’s the last time you heard a news anchor talk about them without smiling or laughing out loud? And scientists, they can’t even get near the subject without giggling. (We see you Neil deGrasse Tyson) So, they must be fun, these aliens. Why, they bring joy all around. You might be wondering about all the sci-fi horrors featuring visitors with bad intent. I say, that’s just another way they entertain us. No one ever leaves a sci-fi movie cowering from the threat above. We use aliens the same way we use roller coasters, to inoculate ourselves against real terrors. There’s plenty of those around. Also, I think we all secretly hope that some good aliens will land, repair all the damage we’ve done to the earth, and give us all perfect health, restored youth, eternal life, and financial security to last until that eternity is spent. So, come on down little green men, let’s get t work fixing the place up.