i'd swim across lake michigan
Sort of but not really inspired by this post at we_are_cities and by Sufjan Stevens. A lot of Sufjan Stevens.
Original fiction. G. 692 words of self-indulgence.
Yet again, to justhush because she is every kind of amazing and I would trust her with my soul. Sugar-coating is only nice on my cupcakes.
Life Medley
Poem is by Saul Williams and can be found in the book ",said the shotgun to the head"
It's soft, the grass at Jude's place. It really is. Soft and comfortable and so green, if maybe a little wild. It grows unrepentant out of mother earth's grasp, wallowing in the child-like ignorance that keeps it from realizing that its lifeline is the soil itself. Sam is sure that there was a glitch in the system, maybe a couple billion years ago, an error that kept plants from possessing a mind and a conscience. Otherwise, it would make no sense for something so full of life not to be alive, in the most human way possible. Sam is suddenly so sure that, should it come to that point, he would give his life for this grass.
Once, he read a poem that said
o my friends,
the greatest americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past to die
please give blood
and that's why he is so sure now, that he would die for this place and its multiple lives, all bound to stay close to the ground yet always extending their tiny bodies to the sky, in a silent plea for release. Even the simplest of beings try to reach for the stars, forgetting that they're far more rooted to the land than they want to be.
An overwhelming conviction settles in his head, and he just knows that the life underneath him right now is a million different people waiting to be born. He threads his fingers through the long, humid leaves that spurt from the Earth's scalp and Sam thinks he'd like to lie here for a little longer.
From inside the house, he can hear strumming. Jude is fiddling nonsensically with the cords on his guitar, having waved a white flag to the clear lack of inspiration that today's weather came coated in. Sam hums along to Jude's improvised melody and squashes a leaf of grass between his thumb and index finger. Green blood is left smudged on his skin. He brings it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smells like the truth and that summer in Milwaukee, and Sam is sure that this is where the secret lies. A continuum of lifetimes bound to last no more than a season, dying unnaturally underneath human feet but never leaving unprepared, giving their place to the new generations. This is what immortality is really about. We have Philosopher's stones hidden in plain sight in the small patches of wildlife herbs we manage to squeeze into the daily grind of our arrhythmic urban lives.
With so many hearts pumping around him, he is certain it's magic. Using it to his advantage, he concentrates on willing Jude over. He's thinking really hard, wanting Jude to be sitting right next to him, providing him with company and shadow.
When it doesn't work, he calls out, "Jude." It's more of a whine than anything else, but it works. The strumming ends abruptly and Jude paddles over, bearing his guitar and glass that is now empty, but is still held in place by the vague notion of thirst and cool. He sits down, legs extended and guitar lain next to them, curves and strings exposed to the sun as though sunbathing. Sam sits up and thumbs Jude's ankle, smearing green on the skin stretched over the bone.
Jude looks blindly for the instrument, hand moving searchingly, until it hits the polished wooden curves. He starts playing again, with one hand, turning the guitar into a harp and fighting to make sense out of the small repertoire of sounds. Sam is still playing with his foot, hand diving underneath the denim and reemerging to paint Jude in chlorophyll.
Jude brings the glass up to his mouth and presses his lips to the brim before tilting it back. He forgot it was empty.
Sam laughs at him and pries his legs open, slipping between them. He plasters himself to Jude, legs on legs forming an acute angle, hands on hands with fingers intertwined, chest on chest, eyes on eyes, and then, like a natural succession of events, lips on lips.
Underneath them, a million lungs breathe in unison.
Sam would die for life, but maybe he'd like to stay like this a while longer.
Original fiction. G. 692 words of self-indulgence.
Yet again, to justhush because she is every kind of amazing and I would trust her with my soul. Sugar-coating is only nice on my cupcakes.
Life Medley
Poem is by Saul Williams and can be found in the book ",said the shotgun to the head"
It's soft, the grass at Jude's place. It really is. Soft and comfortable and so green, if maybe a little wild. It grows unrepentant out of mother earth's grasp, wallowing in the child-like ignorance that keeps it from realizing that its lifeline is the soil itself. Sam is sure that there was a glitch in the system, maybe a couple billion years ago, an error that kept plants from possessing a mind and a conscience. Otherwise, it would make no sense for something so full of life not to be alive, in the most human way possible. Sam is suddenly so sure that, should it come to that point, he would give his life for this grass.
Once, he read a poem that said
o my friends,
the greatest americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past to die
please give blood
and that's why he is so sure now, that he would die for this place and its multiple lives, all bound to stay close to the ground yet always extending their tiny bodies to the sky, in a silent plea for release. Even the simplest of beings try to reach for the stars, forgetting that they're far more rooted to the land than they want to be.
An overwhelming conviction settles in his head, and he just knows that the life underneath him right now is a million different people waiting to be born. He threads his fingers through the long, humid leaves that spurt from the Earth's scalp and Sam thinks he'd like to lie here for a little longer.
From inside the house, he can hear strumming. Jude is fiddling nonsensically with the cords on his guitar, having waved a white flag to the clear lack of inspiration that today's weather came coated in. Sam hums along to Jude's improvised melody and squashes a leaf of grass between his thumb and index finger. Green blood is left smudged on his skin. He brings it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smells like the truth and that summer in Milwaukee, and Sam is sure that this is where the secret lies. A continuum of lifetimes bound to last no more than a season, dying unnaturally underneath human feet but never leaving unprepared, giving their place to the new generations. This is what immortality is really about. We have Philosopher's stones hidden in plain sight in the small patches of wildlife herbs we manage to squeeze into the daily grind of our arrhythmic urban lives.
With so many hearts pumping around him, he is certain it's magic. Using it to his advantage, he concentrates on willing Jude over. He's thinking really hard, wanting Jude to be sitting right next to him, providing him with company and shadow.
When it doesn't work, he calls out, "Jude." It's more of a whine than anything else, but it works. The strumming ends abruptly and Jude paddles over, bearing his guitar and glass that is now empty, but is still held in place by the vague notion of thirst and cool. He sits down, legs extended and guitar lain next to them, curves and strings exposed to the sun as though sunbathing. Sam sits up and thumbs Jude's ankle, smearing green on the skin stretched over the bone.
Jude looks blindly for the instrument, hand moving searchingly, until it hits the polished wooden curves. He starts playing again, with one hand, turning the guitar into a harp and fighting to make sense out of the small repertoire of sounds. Sam is still playing with his foot, hand diving underneath the denim and reemerging to paint Jude in chlorophyll.
Jude brings the glass up to his mouth and presses his lips to the brim before tilting it back. He forgot it was empty.
Sam laughs at him and pries his legs open, slipping between them. He plasters himself to Jude, legs on legs forming an acute angle, hands on hands with fingers intertwined, chest on chest, eyes on eyes, and then, like a natural succession of events, lips on lips.
Underneath them, a million lungs breathe in unison.
Sam would die for life, but maybe he'd like to stay like this a while longer.