A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 27, 2009 || 11:00 pm

traversing the internal landscape

This is what it is akin to:

One day I was wandering around outside, far from where I typically roamed, and suddenly I came upon a clearing. Beautiful, comfortable and somewhat alien, the meadow was strewn with a handful of people sitting yards and yards from one to the next. Each was remarkable in appearance and manner, only connected by the act of having chosen to take a seat in the great expanse of exciting new beauty.

Well, that and the fact that each sat speaking, seemingly talking to themselves.

Every now and again one or more of them got up to move closer to one or another, responding to something they’d caught in others’ self-conversation. Several of them ceased speaking for a time and just made the rounds to listen to the others’ stories, passing from one to the next and not sitting down until they were once again distanced and quasi-alone.

Slightly intrigued and wanting my own taste of this magical place, I climbed a slight rise and sat, in a relaxed lotus fashion, and began to speak. My voice was sure; it came effortlessly flowing from me, low and calm.

It went on this way for a while and then a young man appeared, sitting slightly behind and to the left of me just out of the line of my peripheral vision so that I did not notice him. He sat and listened for some time, and leaned into my line of sight when I was chancing to take a pause. Thinking I was only speaking for the benefit of myself, I was understandably startled and my face flushed with the seeming suddenness of his appearance. He spoke kindly, relaying admiration for my story. A smile stuttered to my face and I thanked him with a sense of genuine humility. He then wandered away, never making himself known to me again.

I got up, straightening my skirt, settling my feet firmly into my boots, and began to walk toward others, finding three or four to my liking. I made my own rounds between them…once, twice, three times before going back to the spot I’d chosen on the hillock, settling in and releasing my voice for a time. I went back to the people I’d found interesting, sitting down to face each one and interjecting my reply to what they’d shared.

They, like me (with the young man who’d first spoken directly to me) before them, didn’t realize I’d even been listening until I’d addressed their stories directly. They then became aware of me when I acknowledged my awareness of them. Some were as startled I had been. Still others received me as if they’d known I was there all along, they just didn’t know when I’d turn up or what I’d look like when I finally got there.

And so days went on, and there were interactions with a handful more, some dressed more thickly than others according to their own perceptions of the elements. There were those that shed layers after a time, though a very few did reflect the appearance of being more tightly- and thickly-wound with covering.

People trickled into the meadow, happening upon it just as I had. A relative few came in seeking specific individuals, and those they sought found them, leading them in and assisting in the search for an acceptable spot on which to acclimate themselves. And without even realizing it, all of us there in the meadow were a community, speaking and reaching out and interacting with one another once our individual presences were made known.

It happened that I came to the knowledge of people being tuned in to certain nuances of my tone and timbre in their own fashions; what one person heard in my story fell completely away from another. Nobody heard what I had to say in exactly the same way, so the things they would bounce back to me in response varied according to what it was they heard with their distinct flavor of listening. This amazed me.

But nothing amazed me so much as when someone first brushed their fingers across mine, or met my gaze for more than a stilted moment, or grabbed my elbow in fevered emphasis, or touched my hair. Sighs became somewhat personal, you know? And here we were, on my patch of meadow or theirs, laughing and fussing and giving a shit.

We made too much noise, maybe. From time to time I’d look up, look around, to see that the place was host to more people. It was okay, I was okay with it. Then there was what could be considered a crowd; our loose togetherness was seemingly a thing of the past as the gathering of Us became larger and more tightly compacted in the beautiful alien meadow.

And there are people that trample and people that piss on the vegetation and people that antagonize others and people that sit, in the fashion of old, still reciting their stories, only now it is like whispering into a hurricane: “How will I ever be heard in a way that matters, in all this?” It’s sometimes harder to get to those people whose stories resonate with me, so ringed with idiots are they. The idiots are drowning out the soulful voices, it seems.

That is what voyeurnalling is now akin to, perhaps.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I climbed the highest peak / And watched the sky all swathed in pink / You were there and not there too / A canopy of night on you / And thinking only of myself / I turned to go, I turned and left / If only to take it back / If only to take it back / If only to take you back, home

// Liz Durrett, ‘Lost Hiker’

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Though I’ve experienced the pleasure of being part of relationships based on genuine mutual admiration via this medium, nothing compares to those that draw on true intimacy, the givings and takings of shared heartaches and deeply inside jokes presenting themselves as tidy metaphors. I have even been part of what could possibly be described as the digital equivalent of a long, slow kiss that ended sharply, drawing blood. The blood stopped, but still I absently find the slightly keloid place on my bottom lip, subconsciously, with the very tip of my tongue.

Smoothly grotesque. Hmph, and I’ve always been such a good healer.

As it stands now, my heart is somewhat seized up; my internal dialog appears to be deepening. Though this is not especially uncomfortable, it is a bit strangling to me though I seem to have no desire to rectify this at present. I fear that one day I’ll wake up to find myself a graphomaniacal mess because the place where I’ve kept the words –all the delicious, loaded words– has been burst open by the sheer force of their prehensile will. I would have no other choice in such a circumstance but to let them come screaming out of my pens, attaching themselves sloppily to whatever precipice would give them purchase.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

This town is like a stranger tonight; there are comings and goings around my normally peaceful neighborhood. There are sirens and car doors slamming and the overall feeling of the kind of uneasiness that I can’t quite quantify.

I wonder after the day I will awake to see the skies on fire, me struck dumb with the knowledge that I knew all along one day that would happen.

2 worked it out »

  1. Coelecanth 4.29.2009

    Ah Jett. The idiots of the world outnumber the goodies, the wallpaper bands outnumber the ones with a direct line to the soul (Thank you for Elbow BTW, Grounds for Divorce is still kicking my ass), the books that should be set alight outnumber the books that light us up. It’s always been that way, no cause for alarm there, and no surprise to find the same on the internet.

    After all, people is people wherever, and however you find them. Just like in the rest of life all one can do is cherish and nurture the ones of worth and kick the rest to the kerb.

    Oh and speaking as one who’s looked up to see sky on fire, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and yet, there was a strange beauty about it, a sense of change that wasn ‘t necessarily for the worse…still, here’s hoping your forboding is misplaced. :)

  2. that girl 5.6.2009

    Oh girl, I get this. Couldn’t have summed it up like this – but I totally get it.


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