farms etc.
the country i think. farm-ing-ton. reflections-from-farm-ing-ton. is this an inside joke among the gods? or is it an otherwordly message sweeping across the universe to help my free will decide? is this the marriage of free will and pre-destiny? is it my feeble attempt to make something of what should be nothing?
a trip to the countryside. not little cookie-cutter rural Walmart america. the real countryside. with crookedly swaying oak trees, cherry blossoms, mulberry pathways, bursting rosebuds and swiveling sycamores. a pond in the backyard of every character home. a hospital employee as a self-appointed area guide. he missed one home-owner but gave me the middle names and grand-daughter names of every single splatteringly rich human with a home on any piece of land in the area. thrown in the beige leathery interior of a chevrolet truck, AC blisteringly cool, we circled the picket fences around houses towering with affluence and steeple roofs, staring into huge facades of shimmering glass reflecting the grazing heat of melting grass. cows huddling in the sun. horses tehthered next to crumbling barns reaching out to the open depths of tantalizing waters of an unnamed lake. 200 millionaires and 4 billionaires. life is choice. land is what it's all about. they chose this land. more millionaires than doctors. we are on a winding road gliding into a forest of sun rays filtering through the perfectly aligned branches of fir trees. i heard scraps of mancini knowing it was all in my head but i did not care i continued to hear it as we crossed the tunnel of thick trees stretching their arms upwards in a gesture of stoic patience. how patient are trees. puppets of soil sun and water. i would not be a good tree. across the railroad track and highway 67 lay the historic 2 street-ed downtown that is being stripped brutally of its identity to be trampled into a hub of shopping malls, kohl's and, it's official folks, starbucks! he said it with a broad grin that showed the chipped tooth in the right lower quadrant of his mouth. as I was young and easy under the apple boughs about the lilting house and happy as the grass was green dylan thomas said but the discrete charm of quiet solitude may grind me away into nothingness into a unilateral paranoia of civilization. no it would not do. the city and its mad streets are made for me. i will close eyes under shadowy branches of country trees, i will rake my naked arms across bristling pastures of gentle grass....maybe two days a week. max.
no. i want to run to my car in lurkingly dangerous nights. i want to stumble upon unknown movies in a shopping mall. i want to sauce magazine restaurants and google map addresses. i want to live in the shadows of buildings with names. and hear their whispers. i want to watch the cows and the horses. on my screen with commentary.
enough. i want to call friends and meet at the pool right off the edge of the highway. i'll figure out a way. that's what a friend, whom (if you're reading you'll know yourself) i will dub FC (fortune cookie), told me. i believe him, but i have no choice but to believe him, really...
a trip to the countryside. not little cookie-cutter rural Walmart america. the real countryside. with crookedly swaying oak trees, cherry blossoms, mulberry pathways, bursting rosebuds and swiveling sycamores. a pond in the backyard of every character home. a hospital employee as a self-appointed area guide. he missed one home-owner but gave me the middle names and grand-daughter names of every single splatteringly rich human with a home on any piece of land in the area. thrown in the beige leathery interior of a chevrolet truck, AC blisteringly cool, we circled the picket fences around houses towering with affluence and steeple roofs, staring into huge facades of shimmering glass reflecting the grazing heat of melting grass. cows huddling in the sun. horses tehthered next to crumbling barns reaching out to the open depths of tantalizing waters of an unnamed lake. 200 millionaires and 4 billionaires. life is choice. land is what it's all about. they chose this land. more millionaires than doctors. we are on a winding road gliding into a forest of sun rays filtering through the perfectly aligned branches of fir trees. i heard scraps of mancini knowing it was all in my head but i did not care i continued to hear it as we crossed the tunnel of thick trees stretching their arms upwards in a gesture of stoic patience. how patient are trees. puppets of soil sun and water. i would not be a good tree. across the railroad track and highway 67 lay the historic 2 street-ed downtown that is being stripped brutally of its identity to be trampled into a hub of shopping malls, kohl's and, it's official folks, starbucks! he said it with a broad grin that showed the chipped tooth in the right lower quadrant of his mouth. as I was young and easy under the apple boughs about the lilting house and happy as the grass was green dylan thomas said but the discrete charm of quiet solitude may grind me away into nothingness into a unilateral paranoia of civilization. no it would not do. the city and its mad streets are made for me. i will close eyes under shadowy branches of country trees, i will rake my naked arms across bristling pastures of gentle grass....maybe two days a week. max.
no. i want to run to my car in lurkingly dangerous nights. i want to stumble upon unknown movies in a shopping mall. i want to sauce magazine restaurants and google map addresses. i want to live in the shadows of buildings with names. and hear their whispers. i want to watch the cows and the horses. on my screen with commentary.
enough. i want to call friends and meet at the pool right off the edge of the highway. i'll figure out a way. that's what a friend, whom (if you're reading you'll know yourself) i will dub FC (fortune cookie), told me. i believe him, but i have no choice but to believe him, really...
posted by rouba at
3:49 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home