(no subject)
you drive home from your friend's house along icy roads, looking at how the moonlight bounces off the snow on the sides of the road. the snow never really goes away here in the winter, and when it does, it's replaced by the cold. after a day or so of being in this town, you no longer notice the smell of the chimneys and the fireplaces burning, burning. in so many ways, it's such a relief to come back. after a day or so of being in this town, you yearn for the city lights, for order, for reason. this is a town of wooden fences, a town of small brooks with crude bridges and sad, drunk patrons who have settled. that may be the worst part about it here. everyone is settled. isn't this such a nice place? with such wonderfully ancient houses (we don't live in these ones, we just appreciate that they are here), with manufactured trees as if to say LOOK PLEASE! WE CARE ABOUT OUR WORLD! we all have sheds out to the sides of our houses, and they are filled with darkness. under all the snow, all the glistening wonder, there is dirt. there is ugliness, and it is hidden from the world. this is the ugliest place in the world.
you drive home from your friend's house along icy roads. you've just watched a movie or smoked a bowl or gone sledding, and you are tired. you are looking forward to pulling into your spot in the driveway, turning off the car, leaning back for a second, slipping inside the house quietly, sliding between your sheets and dreaming. and on some level, you are already doing this in your mind. you are already picking apart your night, remembering the funny parts, ignoring the awkward parts, and singing to the song on the radio, because you forgot your cd collection at college. just as you are thinking wow i haven't listened to the radio in a long time, there is suddenly a small change in your perception. your eyes notice it before your brain can process it, and certainly before your body can react to it. it has eyes.
there are plenty of deer roaming around your town at any given time of night, but you almost never expect to see one, let alone crash into one at full speed. you have just enough time to wonder why a deer would stop in the middle of the road, why a living creature would be so fucking stupid that it would willingly give up its life, before the impact occurs. not even time enough to hit the brakes; your foot is still on the accelerator. the legs go first. it's just as you would picture it in your most twisted dreams, the ones that you always forget the next morning, but the same ones that stay with you the deepest. the front bumper of the car plows in at the top of the thighs, and you hear not only the thumping of the body against the hood, but also the ripping of the legs from their sockets. there is blood on the volvo's grill, and flesh across the hood. the head slams into the passenger side windshield, but you won't notice until a few minutes later that there is glass all over your lap, in your hair, across your chest. the neck breaks. the back of your car swings to the left, and the driver's side of the car plows across the asphalt. the houses are quiet, with plain visages, with settled expressions. the only sound is the radio, playing songs you have never wanted to hear. the machine is unscratched.
velocity is zero now. equilibrium. you're at the bottom of the hill, you're okay. there's the pond to your left, the one you used to skate on, and there is the hill behind you, the one you used to run up. you don't skate or run now; you drive, you slow down at some lights and signs and speed up at others, you roll down the windows and hang your arm out, singing as loud as you can. walk out of the car. you can stand, you can turn your head, you can arch your back. you are fine. there is blood on the snow. this is the ugliest place in the world.
you are walking away from the car, but you can still hear that the song has changed. elton john. someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life toniiiight. a legless animal, lying on the icy road. it is well past dead, its neck broken and its legs severed; it is twitching with the final beats of its heart. there is no one on the road; it is far past the time when most of the kids and drunks have gone to bed, and a bit before the time that the first joggers make their rounds. not even the sound of death can awake this town, as they sleep in micromansions, warmed by wires and pipes. the families will be awake soon. men will arise and scold their children for staying up late, telling them to cut their hair and brush their teeth and get good grades dammit, or how will i have enough money to buy pretty things for my secretary at work? women will awaken and make coffee, reading the papers because their husbands are, making nice breakfasts for their children, and swallowing pills that make them feel like what is happening is normal. children will stumble out of bed, hungover from sneaking out the night before, grumbling while eating cold toast, and taking their lunch money for the day to pay for drugs at school. none of them hear the death outside their windows at night; they are slowly living it themselves.
you wish you had a shovel in your car, because this is hard work. you managed to make a hole in the snow, and you're now digging through the dirt with short fingernails, pulling up roots as you come across them. there is still blood all over you, and you don't care whether it's yours or the animal's, or anyone else's. because it's all the same really. you look at any two objects in the universe closely enough, and it's all atomic, subatomic particles; it's all the same really. how can morals exist in such a system? how can you know that it's right or wrong to kill an animal with your car, to hit your children when they scream, to light up a joint on the roof of a building and breathe in reality? you're digging and clawing through a pile of dirt and rock, and you are crying, crying so hard, because you know that you will never tell anyone about this. you'll wake up the next afternoon and not even tell yourself this. it's christmas day, and this is the ugliest place in the world.
you drive home from your friend's house along icy roads. you've just watched a movie or smoked a bowl or gone sledding, and you are tired. you are looking forward to pulling into your spot in the driveway, turning off the car, leaning back for a second, slipping inside the house quietly, sliding between your sheets and dreaming. and on some level, you are already doing this in your mind. you are already picking apart your night, remembering the funny parts, ignoring the awkward parts, and singing to the song on the radio, because you forgot your cd collection at college. just as you are thinking wow i haven't listened to the radio in a long time, there is suddenly a small change in your perception. your eyes notice it before your brain can process it, and certainly before your body can react to it. it has eyes.
there are plenty of deer roaming around your town at any given time of night, but you almost never expect to see one, let alone crash into one at full speed. you have just enough time to wonder why a deer would stop in the middle of the road, why a living creature would be so fucking stupid that it would willingly give up its life, before the impact occurs. not even time enough to hit the brakes; your foot is still on the accelerator. the legs go first. it's just as you would picture it in your most twisted dreams, the ones that you always forget the next morning, but the same ones that stay with you the deepest. the front bumper of the car plows in at the top of the thighs, and you hear not only the thumping of the body against the hood, but also the ripping of the legs from their sockets. there is blood on the volvo's grill, and flesh across the hood. the head slams into the passenger side windshield, but you won't notice until a few minutes later that there is glass all over your lap, in your hair, across your chest. the neck breaks. the back of your car swings to the left, and the driver's side of the car plows across the asphalt. the houses are quiet, with plain visages, with settled expressions. the only sound is the radio, playing songs you have never wanted to hear. the machine is unscratched.
velocity is zero now. equilibrium. you're at the bottom of the hill, you're okay. there's the pond to your left, the one you used to skate on, and there is the hill behind you, the one you used to run up. you don't skate or run now; you drive, you slow down at some lights and signs and speed up at others, you roll down the windows and hang your arm out, singing as loud as you can. walk out of the car. you can stand, you can turn your head, you can arch your back. you are fine. there is blood on the snow. this is the ugliest place in the world.
you are walking away from the car, but you can still hear that the song has changed. elton john. someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life toniiiight. a legless animal, lying on the icy road. it is well past dead, its neck broken and its legs severed; it is twitching with the final beats of its heart. there is no one on the road; it is far past the time when most of the kids and drunks have gone to bed, and a bit before the time that the first joggers make their rounds. not even the sound of death can awake this town, as they sleep in micromansions, warmed by wires and pipes. the families will be awake soon. men will arise and scold their children for staying up late, telling them to cut their hair and brush their teeth and get good grades dammit, or how will i have enough money to buy pretty things for my secretary at work? women will awaken and make coffee, reading the papers because their husbands are, making nice breakfasts for their children, and swallowing pills that make them feel like what is happening is normal. children will stumble out of bed, hungover from sneaking out the night before, grumbling while eating cold toast, and taking their lunch money for the day to pay for drugs at school. none of them hear the death outside their windows at night; they are slowly living it themselves.
you wish you had a shovel in your car, because this is hard work. you managed to make a hole in the snow, and you're now digging through the dirt with short fingernails, pulling up roots as you come across them. there is still blood all over you, and you don't care whether it's yours or the animal's, or anyone else's. because it's all the same really. you look at any two objects in the universe closely enough, and it's all atomic, subatomic particles; it's all the same really. how can morals exist in such a system? how can you know that it's right or wrong to kill an animal with your car, to hit your children when they scream, to light up a joint on the roof of a building and breathe in reality? you're digging and clawing through a pile of dirt and rock, and you are crying, crying so hard, because you know that you will never tell anyone about this. you'll wake up the next afternoon and not even tell yourself this. it's christmas day, and this is the ugliest place in the world.