One could go on and on forever talking about anything, but I'll just touch on it here.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Cabin Writings: Camp 2012

Nothing is Angry Here

The coolness and crows cawing on this cloudy day make up for the unfortunate smear of traffic noise pollution behind and beside me. At the river, sanity returns.

Nothing is angry here. A partial island along the riverbank houses a family of trees. Their feet, clay colored, show how they sometimes wade in the water. I wonder if they feel the cold? The water trickles and gurgles, tripping along near the flow of the river, which does not speak. Tree cotton and spider webs dress the branches in a gauzy tangle, capturing brittle leaves and twigs for accessories. The air smells earthy and damp. I want to bring the dusty, gritty soil to my nose and compare its smell with that of the mud. If I climb out on that branch to lean my face over the river will it still look green?

photo credit: Creative Commons

Upon Eating too Much Candy on Halloween

Crackling like cellophane, they beckoned from my closet. The hairy faceless giants, their rainbow colors calming in the fearful darkness, led me through a forest of chocolate trees. I snatched a twig and tasted the rich brown sweetness. In a patch of light the beasts began to dance. A gumball-spotted smaller one, who smelled of peppermint, cradled me to her chest. When the dance ended, we slid down into warmth where she tucked me into a pile of furs. 


You exit from the top of the spacecraft. How you got inside doesn’t occur to you. Your eyes are too busy making sense of the who. Giants face you with reptilian skin that sparkles like Christmas. What you really want to know is where their mouths are. Why aren’t you scared? Why don’t you use your mouth to scream? But they start swaying, stirring; their color blurs and perfumes the air. And what can you do but join in?

Catching Your Death (this one wasn't well received because it's odd, but if you saw the bears covered in sweaters at the art gallery, perhaps it would make more sense?)

“Wear your sweater; you’ll catch your death!” All his life, his mother’s words before he left the house. She’d have him wear two if he let her pull them over his head. And now, the cold squeezing him. The fire finished. The lights blinking out in the sky so frozen. Cold, but too hot. Had to get loose from the down coat, the long underwear. A growl. A rumble. A bear coming closer . . . wearing his sweater?

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