A blue, enamel sky shelters me as I perch on the concrete sidewalk once more. Not a single cloud scuffs its surface. The trees, the parched grass, the glittering fragments of rock all glow in the unencumbered sunlight. I am warm. I am light. I am happy.
There is no evolution of place in a human lifetime. Seasons pass- that is not an evolution. It is simply a cycle. I will not live long enough to watch new mountains push from the center of the Earth. I won't see the centimeters as they rise up. It takes almost no time at all for what was strange to become usual. I have lived in this city for two months today. I have perched on this spot week after week, contemplated its totality and juxtaposition. I now belong. This is not a strange place; this is my place. Change is only the interval between two sames. This is a season passing.
In the distance to my left, I see the tops of Georgia pines. I think of Janisse Ray, whose book I have recommended to so many people. I consider the way I felt reading her work. It was the first time I have ever recognized myself in a nature writer.
There are moments that happen (randomly?) in life where you feel the infinite connectivity between yourself and the world you occupy. Suddenly you know that you are meant to be in the world, and the world could not be without you. Most nature writing, I believe, is an attempt to explore connectivity. There is something happening all around us, all the time. We are vibing, giving off and receiving energy. Everything is connected and nature writing attempts to parse it apart for a moment. There are infinite ways to be connected- being disconnected is also one. Encapsulating these points is what nature writing can/should do.
A couple stroll by with a baby and a leashed puppy. All of them smile at me while I sit with my notebook. I smile back, feeling the vibrations from my lips echo through them, into the clear, cerulean sky.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Place Entry 7
1:34 pm
The corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, GA)
The heat has nestled in. The days of jumping from 75 degrees back down to 50 are over. We won't see another day below 70 for months and months.
Everything is weighed down. The branches droop slightly. Leaves turn downward, sighing, uninterested in the brutal sun. I am in the middle of a cacophony of bird calls. Their chattering seems eager, excited, rushed. Maybe I am projecting.
A car- red, covered with the yellow-green pollen layer that has blanketed the entire city- takes the turn at the corner too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting a silver sedan, kicking up gravel, dust and exhaust.
An open-faced sun highlights the insidious pollen. I see it on my black and white shoes, along the white concrete edge of the sidewalk. I can see it on the leaves of the ivy growing up my oak tree pal. This has been torture for most of the city's residents. I am struggling not to itch my hands and face. Liquid fills every cavity in my face, creating pressure and a struggle to breathe.
Atlanta, I was recently informed, is the worst city in the country for allergy sufferers. It is not just the thick, yellow dust of pollen. It is the pollution as well. In the past 15 years, Atlanta's population has boomed so greatly that the majority of the state (63%) now lives in the metro area. Fourteen lanes of traffic on city thoroughfares spew exhaust in all directions. This layer of detritus is invisible but thick. It is pulled into my lungs as I breathe the hot, dusty air.
Another car drives by. A woman pushes a baby in a stroller. The chubby child sleeps heavily, scratching at its eyes through dreams.
The corner at the end of my street (Atlanta, GA)
The heat has nestled in. The days of jumping from 75 degrees back down to 50 are over. We won't see another day below 70 for months and months.
Everything is weighed down. The branches droop slightly. Leaves turn downward, sighing, uninterested in the brutal sun. I am in the middle of a cacophony of bird calls. Their chattering seems eager, excited, rushed. Maybe I am projecting.
A car- red, covered with the yellow-green pollen layer that has blanketed the entire city- takes the turn at the corner too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting a silver sedan, kicking up gravel, dust and exhaust.
An open-faced sun highlights the insidious pollen. I see it on my black and white shoes, along the white concrete edge of the sidewalk. I can see it on the leaves of the ivy growing up my oak tree pal. This has been torture for most of the city's residents. I am struggling not to itch my hands and face. Liquid fills every cavity in my face, creating pressure and a struggle to breathe.
Atlanta, I was recently informed, is the worst city in the country for allergy sufferers. It is not just the thick, yellow dust of pollen. It is the pollution as well. In the past 15 years, Atlanta's population has boomed so greatly that the majority of the state (63%) now lives in the metro area. Fourteen lanes of traffic on city thoroughfares spew exhaust in all directions. This layer of detritus is invisible but thick. It is pulled into my lungs as I breathe the hot, dusty air.
Another car drives by. A woman pushes a baby in a stroller. The chubby child sleeps heavily, scratching at its eyes through dreams.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Prompt Entry 7
At the base, my heart begins to palpitate. A succession of steps, no more than twenty, ascending to a height no more than 12 feet. The walls-- I am not entirely sure they won't close in on me. They never have before, but, after all, a thing can never be proven, only disproven. It only needs to happen the one time.
A creak with the first step. My right foot hesitates briefly. I weigh the importance of the trip, clutch the rail and proceed to the second.
There's no one here but me. Sure. No one else.
I break into a running climb. In less than 30 seconds the whole ordeal is over. My ribs relax a little around my lungs and heart. I do the thing I want to do the least; I have to be sure.
I look back. Nobody's there.
It was probably the horror movies that did it. I've been watching them since childhood. Much to the chagrin of my parents, my grandmother used to let me stay up late every weekend watching marathons with her. The Omen, Psycho, The Good Son, Salem's Lot, Halloween. I devoured them happily and with as much pleasure as the chocolate bars and 2 am popcorn. I love to be scared of a movie, to give myself over completely to the terror of the storyline, to take simultaneous comfort in having control over my actual, physical situation. Michael Myers wasn't in Grandma's living room; my only company was her and the dogs.
The problem is that I am a severely anxious person. I cannot and won't blame horror movies for this. In my mother's words, I come from "a long line of worriers." My mom won't watch a scary movie if you pay her. She will, however, spend every minute of a flight obsessing over the remote possibility of a crash. Horror movies don't make people fearful-- they simply posit new things to fear.
I am afraid of stairs. Well, not exactly. I am specifically afraid of being followed up the stairs, of the sensation that someone is behind me. The classic mistake of the female lead in a horror movie is to flee the killer by climbing the stairs. She ascends, glances over her shoulder and- SLICE. Her neck is cut first. The killer proceeds to slice and stab her vulnerable frame.
Every time I am confronted with a set of stairs, panic grips me. If I am in a group of people, I make them climb first-- to the point of being "weird" about it. It doesn't matter who's behind me; I am afraid of any and everyone following me up a set. The rhythm of footsteps so close behind me makes vomit rise in my throat. I become clammy and faint. I run. This becomes problematic in public places. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I sought acting as a hobby- to learn how to mask my anxiety.
Masking as the innocuous bottom of the wall-ceiling-wall rectangle, the base of the staircase forces me to question whether or not the trip is warranted. Do I absolutely need to go up? It is the last place for questioning. Slats of wood (bare in my home, fabric-covered in others) rest atop one another in the seemingly narrowing corridor. This optical illusion raises my blood pressure. Surely I won't fit through. Surely something will trap me before I reach the top.
The railing is my enemy in disguise. I can grip it for support, but what if it collapses? What if it slows my pace and gives the killer a split second advantage? What if I forgo it and trip, shattering my occipital lobes and nose, beginning the killer's work for him?
The victorious feeling of reaching the top stair is short-lived. That horrible moment must come immediately afterward. The look. Over the shoulder and down.
No one's there.
A creak with the first step. My right foot hesitates briefly. I weigh the importance of the trip, clutch the rail and proceed to the second.
There's no one here but me. Sure. No one else.
I break into a running climb. In less than 30 seconds the whole ordeal is over. My ribs relax a little around my lungs and heart. I do the thing I want to do the least; I have to be sure.
I look back. Nobody's there.
It was probably the horror movies that did it. I've been watching them since childhood. Much to the chagrin of my parents, my grandmother used to let me stay up late every weekend watching marathons with her. The Omen, Psycho, The Good Son, Salem's Lot, Halloween. I devoured them happily and with as much pleasure as the chocolate bars and 2 am popcorn. I love to be scared of a movie, to give myself over completely to the terror of the storyline, to take simultaneous comfort in having control over my actual, physical situation. Michael Myers wasn't in Grandma's living room; my only company was her and the dogs.
The problem is that I am a severely anxious person. I cannot and won't blame horror movies for this. In my mother's words, I come from "a long line of worriers." My mom won't watch a scary movie if you pay her. She will, however, spend every minute of a flight obsessing over the remote possibility of a crash. Horror movies don't make people fearful-- they simply posit new things to fear.
I am afraid of stairs. Well, not exactly. I am specifically afraid of being followed up the stairs, of the sensation that someone is behind me. The classic mistake of the female lead in a horror movie is to flee the killer by climbing the stairs. She ascends, glances over her shoulder and- SLICE. Her neck is cut first. The killer proceeds to slice and stab her vulnerable frame.
Every time I am confronted with a set of stairs, panic grips me. If I am in a group of people, I make them climb first-- to the point of being "weird" about it. It doesn't matter who's behind me; I am afraid of any and everyone following me up a set. The rhythm of footsteps so close behind me makes vomit rise in my throat. I become clammy and faint. I run. This becomes problematic in public places. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I sought acting as a hobby- to learn how to mask my anxiety.
Masking as the innocuous bottom of the wall-ceiling-wall rectangle, the base of the staircase forces me to question whether or not the trip is warranted. Do I absolutely need to go up? It is the last place for questioning. Slats of wood (bare in my home, fabric-covered in others) rest atop one another in the seemingly narrowing corridor. This optical illusion raises my blood pressure. Surely I won't fit through. Surely something will trap me before I reach the top.
The railing is my enemy in disguise. I can grip it for support, but what if it collapses? What if it slows my pace and gives the killer a split second advantage? What if I forgo it and trip, shattering my occipital lobes and nose, beginning the killer's work for him?
The victorious feeling of reaching the top stair is short-lived. That horrible moment must come immediately afterward. The look. Over the shoulder and down.
No one's there.
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