Of the twelve knives in the set of cutlery regifted upon me years ago, I know exactly the one that will successfully cut the overcooked ham that sits upon the table resenting me from a cloud of meaty fragrance. It is sometime from my young adulthood while my callow youth still rested upon my shoulders, and I am sitting at the counter holding a glass which began as mostly coke(diet, I have to watch my calories of course) but which is now mostly water and smudged fingerprints. I have no recollection of what happens afterwards. It is cold outside and I think that if the snow were to fall, perfectly and level, we would all drown in the same color, finally homogenized and similar and together in the way that humanity can only be in death.
In the cold enclosure of my car the warm air from my lungs spills across the inside of the windshield like lava across the grey-green plain. My hands are cold as they grip the steering wheel and my fingers feel like they are sticking to the leather, frozen at 10 and 2 like so many teenage drivers taking classes at arrive alive. I am looking out the window to my left at the twisted arm of a tree, a once mighty oak now dead but still present - the hateful ghost of a once majestic memory. It is a faded black under the dim light of a falling sunset and as the roost of birds upon its crown take to the air like so many vultures after a meal I crest a hill and lose sight of it in my rearview mirror. It is the day before Christmas and I am alone - perhaps I am only ever alone then, in the space between hills where I can simply put my foot down and drive. There is meaning towards moving forward. There is less meaning when that movement takes you closer to the executioner’s block.
On the surface of the sun, solar flares happen and we don’t notice. Huge masses of molten plasma are thrust into the cold network of space where the lingering connections eventually freeze and snap. After enough time there is simply the void - a few remembered particles that float disconsolate without recourse, the withheld remainders of time marching on.
I cannot help but think that somewhere in all of this there is a message worth reading, were I ever to raise my eyes from the digitalis of modern cultural warfare.
Rainy Sunday, Went Out Anyway, NY ‘11
The Lower East Side is a conglomerate of eccentric peoples and establishments and never ceases to amaze. The sheer ridiculousness is shocking sometimes, but after 10+ years, absurdity has become the norm and is strangely comforting. I was stir crazy on a Sunday and despite the rampant downpour and near freezing temperatures, I had to get out. I just purchased the Canon EF 50mm 1.8 II lens and took it out in the rain (fully protected, no worries!) to see what I could find.
(Source: sarahstevensphoto)
the cost of freedom
is
watching your heart squirm around on the floor
like a fish out of water
-hugh macleod
