LJ Idol Week 2: Deconstruction
“I always used to hate those idyllic pictures of people sitting on the grass, without blankets.” She remarked, lying prone on a blanket beneath a tree. “Because your ass always gets wet and you start to itch, and there are bugs.”
He looked up from his book and laughed. “And now?”
“It’s this or go down to the creek and get water. I’m not thirsty.” She explained, still looking up into the branches of the tree, quiet for a moment, as if entranced by the water ripple sound of the leaves and the dappled light.
He went back to his book, but his eyes started to slide off the page, and the words started to lose their meaning. He wondered, idly, if old medieval monks had felt that way about their illuminated manuscripts. He remembered hearing once that the process of making them could be a meditation. Like reading was. One word would set off a chain reaction of thought or plan, and forty minutes later, you’d still be halfway down the page. So he was surprised when she spoke again, and he started, tossing the book and his drowsy thoughts away.
“Do you think a satellite will ever fall out of the sky and hit us?” She asked. She tended to ask these queries, sometimes. There was more than idle speculation about it, as she was good at making plans.
What if a Mad Max biker game comes? What if we’re flooded with refugees? What if the winter is the coldest on record, or there’s a storm and we don’t have an EMS anymore to tell us? What if we get cholera? She’d been making plans even before the world had gone mad, which he thought was silly and slightly endearing at the time, but the plans had saved their lives more than once or twice. Being a chronic worrywart had been good when things started to go south.
“I don’t know. I guess, probability wise, they’d usually land in the ocean, or somewhere where no one was.” He replied, with a shrug.
“Yeah. I just wonder sometimes. It would be funny, if they were still up there, trying to bounce signals around, but they were probably destroyed when everything else was.” She answered, rolling over to her side to look at him. “Sometimes, I used to think, how on earth anyone lived without TV, or the internet, or cell phones. Or even a computer. But we didn’t have them when we were growing up, and we did fine. You had to trust people more. Had to say more things face to face. Now I wonder, if you could go back, would you?” She asked, flopping back down to look up at the trees.
He was silent for a moment, and smiled to himself. Now when you were silent, it really was quiet, but for the sound of say, the chicken coop, or a dog’s bark, to the ripple sound of tree leaves. No more constant, distant susurrus of the Interstate and airplanes, no more electronic taps and whirrs, the whoosh of air conditioners and the trickle sound of water pipes. Not even the click of high heels on linoleum. Maybe this was the way the world sounded before, well, electricity. Now it was all replaced with the bending of cornstalks and a symphony of birdsong.
“I don’t know. Us, here. Keeps reminding me of Walden Pond. You know, the guy, what’s his name?”
“Was it Thoreau? Or Twain?”
“Thoreau. You know, he goes and builds some cabin out in the woods, to escape the hustle and bustle of life. Yet, when you’re reading Hawthorne’s letters, he’s always over at the house, eating, talking. He didn’t want to leave civilization, not really. I don’t think I would want to either, not that I had a choice.”
“Oh, good. For a minute there I thought you were becoming one of those hipster assholes who was actually glad when the world ended because it meant organic food and fixies for everyone.”She told him. “Instead of mass starvation and refugee bands, and never hearing from your family again.”
“Ha, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I would go back. Maybe not all the way. I’ll tell you, I miss turning a dial and having heat, and I’d never have to make my own jam again, or kill a chicken when I wanted meat. At least now I know I can live without it. And I feel sort of dumb sometimes, when it was the end of the world for us, and we’re living better than a lot of other people on Earth were before, you know. The meltdown.”
She rolled up until she was sitting and nodded, thoughtful, serious. “But promise me, even if they fix things and we go back to before, that you’ll always chop firewood shirtless? Because I can live in a world without Facebook, but I can’t live in a world without your abs.”
He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her, forgetting the rest of the world, end or not, if only for a brief moment.
He looked up from his book and laughed. “And now?”
“It’s this or go down to the creek and get water. I’m not thirsty.” She explained, still looking up into the branches of the tree, quiet for a moment, as if entranced by the water ripple sound of the leaves and the dappled light.
He went back to his book, but his eyes started to slide off the page, and the words started to lose their meaning. He wondered, idly, if old medieval monks had felt that way about their illuminated manuscripts. He remembered hearing once that the process of making them could be a meditation. Like reading was. One word would set off a chain reaction of thought or plan, and forty minutes later, you’d still be halfway down the page. So he was surprised when she spoke again, and he started, tossing the book and his drowsy thoughts away.
“Do you think a satellite will ever fall out of the sky and hit us?” She asked. She tended to ask these queries, sometimes. There was more than idle speculation about it, as she was good at making plans.
What if a Mad Max biker game comes? What if we’re flooded with refugees? What if the winter is the coldest on record, or there’s a storm and we don’t have an EMS anymore to tell us? What if we get cholera? She’d been making plans even before the world had gone mad, which he thought was silly and slightly endearing at the time, but the plans had saved their lives more than once or twice. Being a chronic worrywart had been good when things started to go south.
“I don’t know. I guess, probability wise, they’d usually land in the ocean, or somewhere where no one was.” He replied, with a shrug.
“Yeah. I just wonder sometimes. It would be funny, if they were still up there, trying to bounce signals around, but they were probably destroyed when everything else was.” She answered, rolling over to her side to look at him. “Sometimes, I used to think, how on earth anyone lived without TV, or the internet, or cell phones. Or even a computer. But we didn’t have them when we were growing up, and we did fine. You had to trust people more. Had to say more things face to face. Now I wonder, if you could go back, would you?” She asked, flopping back down to look up at the trees.
He was silent for a moment, and smiled to himself. Now when you were silent, it really was quiet, but for the sound of say, the chicken coop, or a dog’s bark, to the ripple sound of tree leaves. No more constant, distant susurrus of the Interstate and airplanes, no more electronic taps and whirrs, the whoosh of air conditioners and the trickle sound of water pipes. Not even the click of high heels on linoleum. Maybe this was the way the world sounded before, well, electricity. Now it was all replaced with the bending of cornstalks and a symphony of birdsong.
“I don’t know. Us, here. Keeps reminding me of Walden Pond. You know, the guy, what’s his name?”
“Was it Thoreau? Or Twain?”
“Thoreau. You know, he goes and builds some cabin out in the woods, to escape the hustle and bustle of life. Yet, when you’re reading Hawthorne’s letters, he’s always over at the house, eating, talking. He didn’t want to leave civilization, not really. I don’t think I would want to either, not that I had a choice.”
“Oh, good. For a minute there I thought you were becoming one of those hipster assholes who was actually glad when the world ended because it meant organic food and fixies for everyone.”She told him. “Instead of mass starvation and refugee bands, and never hearing from your family again.”
“Ha, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I would go back. Maybe not all the way. I’ll tell you, I miss turning a dial and having heat, and I’d never have to make my own jam again, or kill a chicken when I wanted meat. At least now I know I can live without it. And I feel sort of dumb sometimes, when it was the end of the world for us, and we’re living better than a lot of other people on Earth were before, you know. The meltdown.”
She rolled up until she was sitting and nodded, thoughtful, serious. “But promise me, even if they fix things and we go back to before, that you’ll always chop firewood shirtless? Because I can live in a world without Facebook, but I can’t live in a world without your abs.”
He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her, forgetting the rest of the world, end or not, if only for a brief moment.