My world became smaller today. The incessant mechanical whirl compacts this breath bit by bit. Headphones can’t block the warning; that jarring industrial scream every time metal claws rape the soil by one more layer.
Perhaps rape is harsh. It’s not a gentle word. Neither is moving the earth away to erect another brick and mortar, a turnkey development to brass the knuckles of some three piece trying to sell yet another surface American dream. Over caffeinated, over leveraged grads who think the burbs are better.
I’m no better. Trust me, there is no loss to this ironic rant. That field, though, was a last piece of zen sanity. The dog and I ran, snowshoed, and midnight moonlight gazed from its oasis; hearing its frog belly sounds, a nature tape of traffic and yesterday’s firefly girlhood.
Progress as a definable necessity. Do we need another rise of executive apartments when the ones a quarter mile are still vacant?
There was a lapse of sanity when I signed on the dotted line. The city apt was my dream, but every year I froze and paid 200 in heat. When moving westward, I never factored that this playground would disappear. In fact, it was my only pro making it palatable to move back to my home ‘town’ turned bedroom rock toss community.
I’m spoiled. I get that. Don’t judge this too harshly until you read this: I get I’m lucky. To be safe. To have a roof. To have so many things people don’t in a world too full of poverty.
Yesteryear, thou, when I made the escape from control’s ugly hand, it was a struggle. Two jobs; and I still charged the groceries. It took years to finally feel ‘free’. I moved up, but my mind still counts pennies that Romney will never understand. Do it again, I would be in the heartbeat of the pulse that compels so many to move a chair to the broken sidewalk to catch a breeze.
Damn lucky, I am. Yet, I can still lament the destruction. Julia butterfly Hill’s living in the red trees makes more sense now. Her passion isnt a mystery. Her tears watered a dream she didn’t want bulldozed. Gaia screamed, she couldn’t not hear her cry when it shook from the roots of a core we cannot know, but can understand.
Childish dreams. I lived a mystery of mystical beings created from milkweed pods; hickory shadows, and railroad tracks whose heat could burn July bare feet. You can take the girl from the ‘country’ but you can’t remove its husky rhythm that mixed dirt into her DNA.
This destruction rips open the core of who I am. I cannot stop the well from over flowing.
Sadness seems to travel in pairs.
The world became smaller last night…
A sleep creased cheek, there was a lingering warmth that I couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t until I heard his voice that I knew.
Looking down, but looking from a picture frame, it was his slightly off smile that made me smile. I caught a glimpse of his shoulder tattoo, but after twenty years, it was like seeing its outline yesterday. I could still feel his baby soft skin rub my cheek.
“Why so glum?”
“Because we are not really here.”
The puzzle never came to fit between our hands. His brief touch was lost to a realism of sensibilities.
I kissed the impossible. I turned my gaze before we melted away.
It was a dream of a dream that I actually saw from the perspective of being awake even though I was asleep. It was as if in sleep, I stared in a micro drama’s stage.
When I awoke, I still could feel his skin. Perhaps we glimpse at what may be the unrequited scenes that keep us dreaming. ~