“… If an assembly line were long enough it could stretch beyond the projects to some countryside where an unimaginable pastoral unfolds as far as the ocean, containing cows, perhaps, containing birds, containing trees. Pack your bags, sweetheart. Or, screw it — just send for your things.” from I’m Gonna Move to The Outskirts of Town by T.R. Hummer, The Infinity Sessions, 2005
We have nightmares about beetle kill, because this is what happens when you’ve burned the manual as the manual suggests. This is the phenomena of cutting onions; this is what happens when you promise yourself not to worry about the trees anymore.
If we could bottle the wind, we wouldn’t drink it — we’d sell it at the farmer’s market alongside the homemade candle booth where we’d walk by and pinch lit wicks, blackening our fingertips in case, some time later, we need to re-identify ourselves.
Drinking kava, chain smoking cigarettes, packing boxes while using a Sharpie to draw spider webs across your arm. You have no idea where you are going but you’re sure you’ll come out pure, totally transformed and armed with the knowledge that cows are deadlier than sharks.
You’re in love with the idea of something. Light slanting through a doorway. Humble brags in conversations with yourself on the interstate. The past pulling you by the back of the ear while chainsaws rehearse in the snow at the paper mill, grating to finally get the hero template just so.
You’ll wonder at the end if it will matter who’s fault it is, but know this: The good song is always better radio organic. Zoom out for clarity. Say fly only as a verb, never as a noun, and remember the buffalo you love are actually North American Bison.
We were afraid until we discovered the longest palindrome is tattarrattat, which seemed appropriate as we sit on our hands on this last day of autumn, watching everyone we love walk through one door, then another, then out back into the orchard.