Tuesday, July 20, 2004

There are days when seclusion is not only the best option but the only option.  Days when the only time speech is uttered is in hopes of completely changing the entire day into one in which seclusion is not the only option.  This was such a day.  A day, which to be savored properly, would languidly wallow in its uselessness, and finally end with a tumultuous night.  The air was as peaceful as wrathful vengeance, and the grass stood diagonal as it let its master direct and guide it in the path it should tread.  The soil was no longer bound by its chains, and it had risen up to fill the sky, to fight and struggle in an effort to reach other worlds and planet, to colonize that which did not belong to it.  Its struggle ended sooner than it cared to admit, and until the next liberating gust, the soil plotted a way to overpower and leave the very thing which gave birth to it.  As the sun shone down relentlessly on all in its path, the wind continued to give chase to its predecessors, each one stronger and more vivid than the one before it.  As the sun continued it journey across the sky, a dot on the horizon appeared.  At first glance, it appeared to be just another mass of dried, shriveled weeds and soil, hitching a ride from the constantly moving wind.  As the dot became more and more manifest, it became plain to see that this was not the case, but that this was a man.  The years had began to creep up on the man, who now was at least in his sixties, his wooly undergrowth slowly yielding way to cotton.  His clothing was dusty and threadbare, with patches in on his pants where the knees would bend day after day, and night after night.  Working and praying were his only pasttimes, and he did with the ease of an old coat, which had been stretched and worn into eager submission.  A satchel was slung almost haphazardly over his shoulder, and it bounced up and down in rhythm with the gait of his owner.  Another pouch was strapped to his belt, and his feet were bare.  As the wind whipped at the soil around his feet, and raised it into his face and eyes, the old man raised his hand to his face and covered his nose and eyes.  Yet, try as the soil might to invade this new space, the old man continued to tread upon it in complete mastery.  The steps he took were sure and confident, occasionally doubtful as his eye caught the site of potential obstacles.  As he continued his walk, the wind picked up, as if disgusted by his defiantly continuing despite its efforts to suppress him as it did the grass.  With his shoulders upright, and his head erect, the man continued to fight his way towards the other horizon.  As he passed, one could see the scars running down his neck, around his eyes and head, and even on his arms.  Each scar was a story waiting to be told, and each story was only a few urns of beer away, or even just a  mug half full of moonshine away.  As the man continued to the next horizon, the wind died down, as if to signal defeat.  The shape of the man grew more and more indistinct, and finally, he was just a dot on the horizon again.
Today's mp3, served cold, hot or however you want it:
Flower - Eels
My mood?

Don't you think that I see/What its all about?/Hard to look the other way, while the world passes me by/And everyone is trying to bum me out

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