They were all worms:
arms like anuses or heads (for them its the same end) wiggle in the air. Pulsations move through each elongated-form, now part of a composite body. The music acts as an undersea current causing the singular tentacles of this sea anemone, softfleshy and erect, to gesture in waves, bowing one after another; a synchronized response to an unseen force.
And their vibrant colors reflect light in streams: bedazzled shirts and mirrored shiny legs, Reflected, or absorbed by glowinthedark cloth only to be reemitted as a dull ache of greenyellow.
We have drawn up fences around wildlands, caged predators to protect both us and them from one another— this is a favourite mode of interaction with the exotic ‘other’ for westerns: proximity without interdigitation. We do what we believe is best for organisms that are only vulnerable because of human hubris. If we are in need of such extensive control, we should cage ourselves in. We would be choosing to live our lives in confinement instead of forcing it upon our fellow earthmates.
I was sitting on a decaying tree watching some unusually large and intensely black ants roam through the cavernous pulpy insides of the tree. Their bodies were a hue of black that seemed to be voids in space, like the dilated pupil of an animal.
Upon walking out to my current location from the campsite, I had become steadily more and more uneasy…everything was so startling beautiful and grand that I felt increasingly small and meek. The thought “I am lost” kept creeping into my mind. How would I find my way back to the campsite? There was nothing to guide me, I was a stranger here. The forest was enigmatic and as a living space it grew infinite in my mind. It was an insurmountable vastness because regardless of its actual size, I could conceivably wander through it and never find a way back to the paved highway or sculpted fire pit.
But every time I tired to turn back, I found myself stepping forward. I struggled not to succumb to my fear, a fear that would have had me retreat from this matrix of gigantic trees.
I resolved to be still, neither immerse myself deeper nor emerge from the forest. So I found what seemed to be an inviting seat; the long thick and sturdy body of a fallen tree. I sat and with my eyes began to scan the many cracked trunks embedded in the soft ground also reaching high-up overhead. Suddenly I felt a delicate almost imperceptible sensation on my hand. The forest’s whispering touch seemed to contrast its visual presence. I looked down to find the source of the sensation- a single ant with her thin legs dancing across the surface of my slightly dry tight skin. She was lost and yet centimeters from her path.
Anonymity only lasts so long, don’t waste it because then you have to start all over again.
Quickly; every action placed me into a context, every confession revealed me, and every friendship held me accountable. I moved out here to be free- unplugged- noncommittal how quickly i tied myself into NYC. necromantic yuppie crocus, neurotic yellow cunt, neglected yonic caterwauls. What makes me want to define myself, I wanted to be understood so badly that I lost my dream of blamelessness. All those dark fantasies are buried with the bulb of crocus, dripping wet cunt left unsatisfied and caterwauling.
As I sit here in the library, looking out the large paint flecked window onto the skeletal trees and still air, I miss you. I think about what your smile, your tattoos, your dirty hair would be like here. I miss the part of me that gets to exist when you are with me. I miss the moments that are created by our relationship. Then as I think of you and me, I think of all the other friends that are missing. I feel like I cannot be fully me without them. Who here could talk to me about feminism and get me to go to a pig roast, who could bring me into a place of such doubt about the possibility of the artificial as natural because we made it? How can I be me if I am not strapping you in to your car seat wiping off the spit-up from your tiny button-down? If I am not chasing your waving tail as you chase squirrels? If I am not listening to you tell me about aliens, about how you and I are spirit beings come back to earth to help others pass into another dimension, has it been replaced with the classroom dialogue I hear now? What am I if your energy is not being absorbed into my skin darkening, freckling and burning it? What has happened to me now that I do not stand in the light of a white sky raining embers smelling of burned?———-I am not a self a single separable ‘person’, I am a collection of responses and relationships——- But I could never give up that which I get to be now. Dancing with them in bars with low ceilings, sticky floors or men in suits like statues. Reading Patti Smith’s poetry as you speak to the gallery owner and learn about the past pressed in ink onto all kinds of paper. How will you/they know me, if you cannot see all the me’s? Walking in the snow, kissing on the subway, cooking plantains in my apartment? What about the me’s that exist in New York, How can I be real if I can never combine the two?
by the canyon lady