the chair was facing no where… just waiting.

guitar strings meld with a breeze that cries for thunder under a drape of southern sun. does this wind carry the cries of Isaac’s touchdown, surely it has swept into the echoes of yesteryear remnants. a land, a people, torn asunder only to revisit a nightmare that walks boldly anytime of day. 

a jet echoes our sky, the ground seems to sway under its lowing pressure. acoustic rhythm patterns a hard laborer’s hammer. he builds a dream of some other person’s castle.    

Is it construction, or destruction; we could argue, but there is no changing the West’s ways. We continue to get drunk on the oil of expansion, usurping all oil until we fight for that last dregs that shall shimmer in our enemies pupil, teasing us to try to capture its last weapon – mass destruction, we peril.

as the man lays dying, McCarthy describes the long look the weather-beaten horse gives from the shanty door. death torturing  the flea-bitten animal seems more mournful than the dark fate of one with four limbs – two to walk, two to destroy their kin with knife or gun. there will be blood – Cormac makes one cheer for the horse that races down the dusty arroyo, breaking free from the holds of its master’s whip and weathered boot. damn the man whose sole purpose is to hunt the scalps of humans. each animal that crawls from a wild moonlight breathes life, reveals a bit of humanity – isn’t it strange, that the animal is less beast than the animal not beast.

who in darkness shall spill blood out of an empty hunger? who under the shadows spills blood out of just emptiness? 

I took a random day off today…several hours of vacay are the one perk of living a boring, stable life in which one has held the same job for a decade. These thoughts were composed under a shade tree, a shady area that is a stones throw from where I reside. Pandora currently streams classical guitar (Christopher Parkening) while trucks next door honk with their filled dirt loads, signaling the next truck to pull into place. A constant chatter of hammers and nail guns compets with the random bird that doesn’t seek cover from the afternoon heat.

Heat rolls over the pup and me; flies dip for a taste of us; I taste the cooling coffee from an old glass jar. Cormac McCarthy  entertains with a brutal world of a wild west we’ve never experienced. He paints it heavily in blood and brilliance; not an ounce of compassion is spared except for an animal about to die. The 1800s were a beastly time – savagery on the plains and in the canyons, blood spilled was equal opportunity – be it white, black, red or brown,  down South, only the ghosts slept peacefully.

the chair was facing no where… just waiting.

Z and I went exploring – this is what we found after following a road that currently leads to no where. We rounded the bend to find this chair. What you cannot see is the nice neighborhood in rural suburbia that is on the other side. However, it seems more fantastical, romantic, not to reveal this bit of information. Instead, keep imagining a scrub of land where someone has decided to occupy time to just stare into where? Does he or she stare at the moon while whispering to the stars a lone desire. Perhaps the last  person on earth, too far from anywhere; too far to desire the last drop of oil or blood. ~

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  1. This is the McCarthy book I want to read next. Read ‘The Road’, which I consider to be as much a poem as a novel. He’s one of the finest we have.

    • Hi Mark, actually, The Road, is what made me fascinated with McCarthy. Indeed, it did read like a poem..probably what resonated, that and it is very dark. I’d forgotten how much I dig post-apocalyptic themes. I’ve now a list of books along those lines to read in the future.

      I bounce around a lot with my reading; however, McCarthy’s writing is so wonderful, that anything else fiction-wise must be of grand pen in order not to fail miserably. (btw- I couldn’t watch the movie for The Road, did you? I loved the book too much!)

      • I did see the movie. It’s worth watching, Viggo Mortensen is good, but it falls far short of the book.

  2. Finished a book today and couldn’t decide what to read next, but had a few moments of precious solitude and on my way out grabbed my copy of Blood Meridian, for yet another read (it is a book which seems to always hold new gems for me). When I read the feed of your post I had a chill or two. Great minds think alike? :)

    Oh, and I also curse how noisy it is during the day in suburbia, all that grass cutting and extension building, the latino workers tidily retreating before the commuters arrive from the noisy city with heads busy with fantasies of how peaceful it might have been to instead sit under the shade of a tree and read a book…

    • what is even more odd about this…as I’m reading your comments re: the latino workers, I feared that you misinterpreted my commentary on them…only to remember that I took those paragraphs from my original free hand journal!
      Please know that I realize how fortunate I am to be in the burbs and take a day off to read under a shade tree! The construction site is literally at my back door…no more than 30 feet. On the opposite side of the site, the guys play classic mariachi music early in the morning; it makes me smile every time.

      So curious…are you a McCarthy fan? I’m a bit obsessed as of late. Just watched “No Country For Old Men” and now cannot decide if I can read the book because I LOVED the film so much. The dark and macabre is my fiction of choice. ~


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