He was already dead before he was born, came out of the womb like void and now he’s the nightmare that lives down your street. Dwelling in desolation and isolation, he just wants to live in your house, live in your skin, take it all in. He’s never really seen but lurks from within. it’s kind of an addiction, if you know what i mean. Sitting on the sidelines, life never really comes for him. Everyday he makes exactly the same. He lives in emptiness outside the sleepy hallows, on the periphery, imperceptible. When the night comes, he swallows his breath and gives in again and again, rolling his eyes in the back of his head, devil’s cock in his hand, wanting only to consume, to be consumed.
It was a lush autumn night when Domesticles woke to the realization that he, and everyone else, was at the end of someone else’s bottom line. Even the fat cats in the high rise offices were pawns in someone else’s game, everyone was being used in this life of domesticity there is no avoiding it.
That he was long in service. In fact he was in service to the word service, as much as he was in service to the elites. Life was service. Living the domestic lifestyle that he was, his actions and thoughts were a constant service to lining the pockets of the retailers.
Matrices, much like a pyramid scheme followed his dollar up the food chain, wherein he could see not only the interconnection of things but also his own place in it, right at the bottom.
A bead of sweat formed. Needless to say Domesticles did not sleep very well.
Yesterday we walked through the woods only with the intention to explore. We were confined only by the limitations of our mind and that of the park borders. We forgot to ask about what we would be doing in an hour. We left behind the fancy of thought lost in the hours that have yet to happen, because we were so swept away, so immersed in the immediate questions of this tree or that bird. It felt like hours had passed, though it had only been minutes, because just around the corner of every moment a new discovery lay in wait. Is this the same park we come to every weekend?
Redwood cedar boughs dip and make a perfect seat to sit and watch the march of ants up the sloping bark. Big leaf maple leaves dot the trodden path, and you always seem to find the perfect one to pick up and take for a walk. Quaking Aspen, with yellow and green leaves, shiver and flash in the light breeze, shuddering brilliance against the clear blue sky. We dream of forever in this moment.
Every patch of bent grass appears as if it’s some kind of secret entrance that beckons us further into the brush, under the prickled, hairy canopy of moss laden tree limbs. We sit for a while in the marsh and listen to the birds dance between treetops in hopes of seeing one flash right in front of our eyes, or sing it’s lovely melodies just above our heads. We dare to hope. Though we don’t need it, because we see its limitations all around and hear it in the marsh frog’s croak.
An author brings words to life, everything flows, there’s an intuitive nature to it; harmony. It’s poetry fused with knowledge and drama.
More beautiful than anything you’ve ever writ, but still makes you wanna try, because it’s not stuck up writing.
It fills you, though, with a longing, an empty knowing that you could never reach that benchmark, or worse you may just end up producing a subpar imitation.
Still you know you’ll try, and you know that instead of finding fulfillment in your words, it will only ever increase that longing to try.
Today you realize that instead of trying to put it all down on paper, in the immediacy of the moment, what you really need, what will say how you feel without saying anything at all, is to simply go for a walk outside.
Under the canopies, amongst the birds and the wind, the shaking of leaves, trickling creeks, and distant traffic swells. Leave it all behind. Because in the hugeness of outside is where inspiration, real, unique inspiration strikes. Outside is where everything is said, without saying anything at all.
By the way, the book? The author? The Overstory by Richard Powers.