Wednesday, September 05, 2012
I thnk that I shall never see... (a roaming metaphor)
There is a single tree off in the
distance atop the yellow and brown sun bleached landscape. There is that one
single tree, just sitting there, alone, presumptively proud, holding court with
nonentity in full reveal, spiny spiraling naked black branches reach earnestly
into the pale sky backdrop. It is jittering from the all too infrequent breezes
that touchdown occasionally to change creation’s fingerprint ever so slightly.
There is a single tree standing half crooked in defiance against infinity,
ruining the perfect emptiness of the flat bed desert and it Jitters like a
quivering child in a crib for an instant at a time. When the wind is gone it
stands still in the stillness again, silent amid the silence again, essentially
lifeless again, leaving only the sweltering heat that flickers the horizon
imagery of absolute vastness as the only living moving thing to be seen or felt
and yes, this heat strong enough to even be heard.
There is a single tree off in the
distance and she wonders:
Can
a living human, barely living I suppose is the case, really, can one such have
a kinship with a tree? Is that a possibility? Is there a chance of that?
She wonders this openly in the
recesses of her boiling brain. She stands there, perhaps a mile away, only a
few minutes stride on a horse or sturdy camel if either of each were so
inclined to make themselves available. She stares at this sudden… presence in
the distance. The first of something, the only anything that dared to rear head
and add texture or detail to this absolute cracked and parched flatness of her
world, this unyielding blankness that stretched out to no conceivable end. It
seems she’d been walking for days, no turning to either left or right, just a
straight line, a straight shot across the desert, as she conceived it. It
couldn’t have been days, she had no water, she’d eaten no food and the heat and
exposure were such that without either, even moderately exposed, survival was
an impossibility. No it must only be for a few hours at the most, but that was bad
in itself because, as mentioned, she felt like she’d been walking for
days. Though hours they must have been
long hours, bordering on perhaps a full day. By now she was no longer
interested in shelter, she was no longer on the lookout for moisture of any
kind, settlements swaying in the wavy far off corners of her eyes, or spying
any critters she might grab and eat for a boost of energy. She was past all
this, past the want of shelter, past the concern about her lobster red
shoulders or the back of her neck which itched and felt as though it were crackling
just beneath the surface of her scorched skin.
When life hands you lemons, you die of citrus toxicity. When life puts
something in your way you trip over it. where there’s smoke there’s choking and
blindness and an inability to get out of the fire, when life presents as a bowl
of cherries they’re usually maraschino, and probably fermented.
So Eat up you
greedy bastards, yo ho!
She stumbles and realizes that she
has been walking again. One foot creeping out and curling at the red red knees,
planting peeling feet square flat on the superheated ground.
I
don’t feel nothing, not a thing. Alone alone through the desert is the song I
sing, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing…
How she
got there was a thing lost in the first stages of perspiration, back when she
was painfully aware of how dry her mouth was. That time is gone, who cares why
I’m here, this is the world, this is reality, this is the epitome of a baptism
of fire. I am here, I am alone, I will weather this singlehandedly. She thinks.
Notions peek through the threadbare tapestry that is her conscious awareness,
the heat had taken the meatier chunks of recollection some time ago, so she was
left with the fleeting single firing synapse that occurred every few moments.
What about your soul, loved ones, what about living to see 30? It says. This
one was a good one, usually a false fired synaptic interruption came in the
form of an image of a candy bar, a tall sweating glass of frosted milk, or
maybe even a nasty tasting but…ohhh… iced cold beer. But this time these were a
string of conscious thoughts, some steady thinking reminding of of the old days
just eight or nine hours behind her.
Fuck em! The thought goes on. Family, loved ones? Wouldn’t that draw
down some kind of rescue mission, wouldn’t that have them come from wherever
hell they’d disappeared into, save me from melting toes and bright red skin? If
they were real they might, but out here nothing is real, not mom and dad, my
brother Billy, not the fucking heat, or cracked ground, there’s nothing but me…
me and that gorgeous looking tree.
The
wind was blowing when she reached it. The breeze was immaculate, even as grainy
sand particles tapped relentlessly against the raw surface of her deep red and
purple skin. The tree shook there, not a leaf on it, dried and cracked all up
and down its surface, deep brown and black covering it from head to toe, dry
and dead it was, and swaying there.
Someone left you here too, didn’t they? To
be scorched, not even the bugs come to keep you company, huh? She said out
loud, speaking to the tree, blinking sand as it intruded the corners of her
yellow eyes. I’m here now, my friend, she
says. I’ll be your company. The wind starts to kick and all imagery begins
to dim into a light brown out of dust and sand and particles. It’s instinct
that makes her cover her eyes, not concern, not fear of blindness, she was past
those worries. She clamored close to her friend the single tree, nearly
slamming into him as the forces from all around began to go haywire, blowing,
whistling hauntingly loud wails and pushing and pulling and ripping at her. She
hugs the tree, turns her head to see the storm is on top of her, a virtual
mushroom cloud of sand and sweltering desert wind twisting in circles,
rearranging the very fabric of the desert.
Not home, not home you’re all on your own
And only the devil knows that you roam now
alone
And in he comes a-callin’, bids you good day
Lustful, bloodthirsty for only you as you
make your way
Not home, not home and oh so alone
The devil’s fingers curl your narrow
backbone
No sense in ballin’ no cry, no whine
all you can do is keep biding your time…
The
bark cracks beneath the pressure of her body pressed against it. a clean streak
trails down it’s middle, as though opened by a zipper. Hacking on the heated
sand that chokes all points of entry, she slips right into the bowels of her
friend where she does find a moment’s reprieve from the storm.
Gee, it sure wouldn’t be bad to die right
about now, to anyone listening, to anyone who cares, anyone…? Anyone..? anyone?
I didn’t fucking think so!
Sand blocks the sun out and it’s
nighttime. She’s in her friend to tree, not alone, but sheltered in the
powerful arms, the impenetrable fortress that is his body.
The
wind dies after what seems like hours. There is silence and...and then... and
then there's this boiling sensation, a pushing warmth from beneath her in the
dark. For a little while she can deal with it, but after a short stretch of
moments she is overwhelmed and begins to crawl, sliding away from the heat
inside the hollow confines of her friend the tree. The heat propels her upward,
scrambling on her own power, hand over hand she comes further and further from
the depths, until the surface is breached, until the cursed sun once again
leers down on her from high high overhead.
Standing
there, on the surface of the new landscape, the aftermath of the storm, she
marvels at the changed world. Hilly dunes are now as far as the eye can see,
golden and glimmering sands rolling loosely from high arching peeks, the breeze
is more continuous and the cracked dried unending land below is nowhere in
sight. This is not salvation, not yet, this is no guarantee of survival, not by
a long shot. This is just change. But right now, the change is cherished.
Saved,
rescued from monotony, by just the sight of that spinney silhouette, saved by
the dead husk of my friend the tree. saved long enough, at least to see this
unexpected phenomenon, to see the world change. It occurs to her that her
friend, the defiant tree, the one friend from the previous world, is now
several feet beneath her, swallowed by the new esthetic.
His
pain is over… she thinks… stepping away from the hole in the ground she thinks
fondly of him as she makes her way forward. the stretching landscape, newly
peppered with interesting obstacles and fresh twists and turns somehow allow
for there to be less despair, if only a little, and the idea of continuing is
not so absurd.
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