Cathedral of Trees
I've started reading Michael Moorcock's The Skrayling Tree, Oona's section where she's traveling with some Native American archetypes, and so far it's been more interesting for the side things it's making me think about than the story itself from how there's a lot of traveling and exposition about the Balance.
For White Crow and Ayanawatta, everything has a consciousness. I know, it's hardly a new idea, particularly given the cultures they're supposed to be from, but for some reason this book is really making me think about it and remember how there were some less disturbed wooded areas in Pennsylvania where I did feel that the trees, plants, and even the stones had a kind of consciousness, although the stones' were deep, thick, and slow. Being alone in deep woods is a bit like being in certain churches for me, although the churches make me feel a part of a long line of wondering humanity while being in the woods make me feel like a part of life, a part of the cycle of everything.
(Experiencing true woods for myself also made me wonder if a lot of fantasy authors had ever bothered visiting actual forests, since their woods come off as well-manicured and bright, while only Dark, Evil Woods have swamps and dead fallen trees, as if the swamps and fallen trees aren't part of and home to life too. Also, geniuses, thick stands of trees create shadows, which allow certain kinds of plants to grow. There's nothing morally suspect about it.)
Then again, when I was a kid living in Queens I used to talk to the two trees in front of the neighbors' house, the slim Patrick and the older, thicker, lumpy Elizabeth. I'd tell them about my day, though I don't remember now if I thought they answered. When I moved back nearly 10 years later I saw that Elizabeth had been ripped out and felt a definite pang.
I don't feel that sense of consciousness in most trees and stones in the city, maybe because they've been so manipulated and pruned and maybe because it's harder to find dense areas of them. Central Park is close, particularly in the less traveled areas, but not quite.
For White Crow and Ayanawatta, everything has a consciousness. I know, it's hardly a new idea, particularly given the cultures they're supposed to be from, but for some reason this book is really making me think about it and remember how there were some less disturbed wooded areas in Pennsylvania where I did feel that the trees, plants, and even the stones had a kind of consciousness, although the stones' were deep, thick, and slow. Being alone in deep woods is a bit like being in certain churches for me, although the churches make me feel a part of a long line of wondering humanity while being in the woods make me feel like a part of life, a part of the cycle of everything.
(Experiencing true woods for myself also made me wonder if a lot of fantasy authors had ever bothered visiting actual forests, since their woods come off as well-manicured and bright, while only Dark, Evil Woods have swamps and dead fallen trees, as if the swamps and fallen trees aren't part of and home to life too. Also, geniuses, thick stands of trees create shadows, which allow certain kinds of plants to grow. There's nothing morally suspect about it.)
Then again, when I was a kid living in Queens I used to talk to the two trees in front of the neighbors' house, the slim Patrick and the older, thicker, lumpy Elizabeth. I'd tell them about my day, though I don't remember now if I thought they answered. When I moved back nearly 10 years later I saw that Elizabeth had been ripped out and felt a definite pang.
I don't feel that sense of consciousness in most trees and stones in the city, maybe because they've been so manipulated and pruned and maybe because it's harder to find dense areas of them. Central Park is close, particularly in the less traveled areas, but not quite.