August 3rd, 2005
You get strange looks when you walk at night;
you get spiders on your arms.
You get offers from the warm dark guts of vans,
you get night rabbits fleeing from you at top speed.
You learn the prayer:
“Please don’t rain until I get there,”
as well as other useful chants not spoken, but drummed out with the feet.
Getting there is vital, but the destination is not always important.
Sometimes you just want to see the yellow bird compacted on the sidewalk.
And what if you go too far inside to notice?
The Interior is a place with strange groundskeepers, they work when you should be sleeping,
instead of standing fever-eyed in your neighbor's lawn.
They usually work with the tiniest of knives, measuring the grass, not even, but as it should be.
The Interior has no borders, it is abundantly clear where you are.
Most outside observers will make crude assumptions, such as:
“You are so fucked up right now,”
or:
“I am frightened.”
But they can’t hear the music that comes from the windows of dark houses.
Whatever they know is not the same as whatever you know.
We are not yet certain that these ideas can be reconciled.
However, we do know that one does not have to contradict to differ, but it is frequently preferred.
Like I said, the destination is not always important.
I’ve made this walk two thousand times; the end point moves a little further every year.
Regardless, all roads lead to the ocean here. This is true everywhere, but here more than most.
Such concepts of road and of current flow together well.
Caution tape, like dams and signs against swimming afterhours, can only be so effective.
(there's more, don't worry. ha. editing and rediting.)
Posted by samantha at August 15, 2005 11:58 PM