I considered composing this in iambic pentameter but ended up opting for something a little more stream of consciousness, I'm tired and it is the 21st century, I apologize for run-ons
Where rugged could be a gross understatement, we’re zipping down sandy paths à la moto, (as romantic as it sounds for 20 minutes tops) I’m thinking about the most evocative landscapes I’ve come across in print. Thinking about Willa Cather’s Nebraska, thinking about what she might have to say about the edens I’ve found myself in lately. The Land That Photos Don’t Do Justice To and somehow seem like cheating anyways. I’d paint you a picture through words, but such is the problem, I’m at a loss for them. I’ve rummaged through my arsenal of diction and come up short. The words I want to use - like “pungency” and “frequency” - aren’t even in the right sensory ballpark. (Although I don’t know how to apply it, “spirulina” isn’t entirely far off.) I’m lead to conclude - and why not? - that the people who describe it best are the people who’ve made it their home, at one point even their religion. And in their tongue it’s simply: Sacred Bush. The greens of vegetation and rusty hue of the earth are of a saturation that only becomes slightly more believable when dusk starts to sap its vibrancy, when oncoming night threatens to make all things monochrome. (In that vein, I don’t need a mirror to know mine is the last face to disappear into the deep blackness of night). And all over is this smell, something almost metallic; it’s something that grows in Florida, and closing my eyes (barely catching my breath) I’m back in Treetops Park, in my mud-spattered uniform running the woodsy three mile path that only a hundred thousand footsteps and wrong turns taught me. This is the hour that I arrive in the village of Niassène, greeted by a human warmth and spirit on par with their surroundings. Later I’m watching a skit put on by the villagers, and in the stretches between whispered translations, I’m only vaguely paying attention to the drama unfolding on-stage and instead my sleepy, wandering mind is enjoying the rollicking audience and wondering if it couldn’t be too different from the candle-lit milieus in which the bests of Shakespeare made their 16th century debuts. If one were to substitute the Globe Theatre for a modestly square dance hall. I don’t doubt for a minute that had they not been gripped in the riotous throws of laughter they’d be hurling rotten vegetables. And during this time, three plucky little kids who couldn’t believe their stroke of luck or overcome that last trace of childhood gall stole touches at my feet. If they were surprised or disappointed by the feel of boring old flesh, they wouldn’t meet my eyes to show it. I spend the entire night in that space between the strata of asleep and awake. There's ants in the bed and I can here something scurrying all over the room, near my head, at one point I can hear it breathing. In almost delirium (I must have been leaning more towards asleep … or feverish) I was upset I couldn’t remember if mice eat people, running over and over the lines, "if you give a mouse a cookie" and couldn't remember anything further to quell my worries. (For what its worth, I spent the night in this same village once before in a clean and cozy room - guess I picked the wrong straw this time). I think I forgot to mention that all of this occurred under the most unimaginable sky. The type of sky that restores credibility to those constellation maps you see (almost mitigating the fact that its very existence relies on a sad want for electricity in these parts). The longer you stare into the dark, your eyes process more and more white stars until you can’t tell star from sky, even thought they’re virtually opposite in color. Like an ashtray spilled on dark ebony wood. That's the way it is, hey? rodents and sublimity. Two sides of a coin.
