Description

Here I am again, in the forest. This time it is neon green and magenta, scissoring against one another. I have been here before. So many times. Year after year. The origin, the headwaters, the beginning, it all starts right here. When I come here I remember the repetitions, cycles, bike rides, late night gravel path walks, secrets hidden in the trees. Have I looked at this specific segment of the landscape before? I can’t be certain I would even recognize if I happened upon it again. So then its essence, it’s fullness, possible richness of life and diversity (or perhaps blandness, a rotten hive of invasive species and plastic microfibers, either way) is stuck, sliced temporally, torn from past and future to the irrevocable present, and placed on a microscope slide for close inspection. Then you laugh and the glass breaks. The image is shattered. The sky is hot pink. Everyone is queer, I hear myself screaming. Nobody is a single thing. Only the oppressed are given labels. But my words come out as belching mud burps because I am drowning in the emerald swamp. I stop. I am at peace. I relinquish. Little pollen covered packets fall on my face spilling seed dust on my lips. I lick and taste the salty sweet springtime renewal. You know. Grow another ring. Stretch your branches a little further. Reach your roots a little deeper into me as I become the fuchsia in the sky reflected on the surface of the bog water. Feel my body, soft and supple like the soil around those thick rough-edged trunks. Love is more than just a chemical process.

The Original

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