Sense of Scenery

'Archaic Surfaces' / 'The Murder'

 



‘Archaic Surfaces’

May 14, 2010

 

There was an incident with a massive levitating python at some point, but I don’t remember the intricate details or environment. All that remains is a vision of this giant creature all sprawled out and rigid, curing, as if undergoing fossilization. It was terrifying at the time. Snakes have wondrous heads, especially the larger ones. They seem to command respect. Their design is exquisitely perfect for their means, as they perfectly unite their essence with their specific territory. Weighing hundreds of pounds, they wield their bulk in divine symmetry with the foliage, as mocked, flesh-like limbs, curled around the dark undercurrent of the jungles and mysticism. Too often their secretive, mysterious behaviour has been grossly misinterpreted as evil, likely since the dawn of the sub-conscious human mind. For all of our myths and legends regarding this amazing creature, that in itself says something grand, at least to us and us alone.

From there the next thing I remember is worthy of writing down, cause it was riddled with a hysterical sense in my heart; perhaps it was a feeling of momentary, lunatic behaviour.

I find myself crawling into dark pits not unlike mining pits. Deeper and deeper I descend, with various companions, though I didn’t remember inviting anyone along. I come across at least a dozen or so pools of crude motor oil at the bottom. I navigate around them with a single companion that I disregard, and stare into one at the edge. I’m given the notion now that I’m an oracle of some sort. I want to see the future in the surface of the oil. (I’m taking a wild guess here that I’m conjuring a metamorphosis of the recent oil spill off the coast of New Orleans in the Gulf of Mexico) So I crouch down and stare into the swirling rainbows of the Earth’s distant past. Movements dance around like the gaseous clouds of Jupiter. Instead of seeing the future of humanity, I receive a powerful feeling that someone is trying to curse me. Someone I knew/know? I’m not sure. But I remember telling my un-invited companion that I should probably kill whoever tries a curse on me. Is it a type of self preservation making itself known here? Is that the future of humanity? I can’t say. Any prophecy is generally useless, because it has no certainty embraced in any standard. It’s purely blind faith. Any recent doomsday-like prophecy in the media, I can’t help but laugh at, considering how long we’ve been spooking one another with goofy prediction/visions of a bleak future. That’s like saying that “someday, something bad will happen…” Oh, really?!

 

‘The Murder’

May 17, 2010

 

I’m at a deep-woods shack made out of spare, mismatched pieces of scrap lumber. The building itself is an eyesore, cluttered inside and out with garbage and various hoarding, but the forest is massive and beautiful, bathed in summer sunlight. The smell of cedar and vegetation is unique to these majestic trees. I’m just outside the door of the shack when a giant murder of crows fly overhead. They come in waves and take up residence in the trees in the immediate area. One after the other, the dominant members of the fleet have their hierarchy, as they segregate themselves slightly from the rest of the group. They’re the leaders of the pack. The others, in a chain of command, stay close behind, like members of a vast social club. They chatter and squawk among themselves. In the moment, I’m reminded of the alien nature of the human, in a sense that we may seem so different from every other species, yet at the same time we aren’t but constantly feel as such. Sometimes our insecurity is uniquely present, but at other times, we are juxtaposed with an arrogant over-confidence, with our need to dominate the surface of the planet, ourselves, everything. Is that due to our insecurity of time and place? Will that always be? Has it always been? Probably not. The deeper we hide inside concrete environments of light and disillusion, the more terrified we become, it seems. Should we revert into the past and live in ancient ways, once again? Ha, ha, no, I don’t think so. Do I have any viable suggestions? Nope. You can never go home, I suppose. Can you smell the blood of defeat and sacrifice in our past. All that pain to error, error and error into successfully reaching plateaus, out of the plains, and out of the caves. Our fellow animals that scavenge around us, and much like the crow, they offer no consoling warmth or sympathy; the black eyed, voyeuristic beads of the silent witness. It’s no wonder to me that people consider/considered these birds to be Gods.

Suddenly it’s night, but the forest is illuminated. A skyscraper sized cedar tree is centre in my attention. I’m in awe of its presence. It’s almost other worldly. I have to crouch to my knees, because I can’t understand what I’m seeing. The tree has been hollowed out by a team of people at some past point. Inside is a smaller tree, though no less impressive in size, as it’s hung from ropes inside its skeleton, as a kind of demented pendulum. Fashioned bells of small trees are tied together at the very top of whole structure. A rope lay before me that I yank on and it sends the tree into a spasm of movement that I have a hard time trying to explain. The sound it makes is deafening and is obviously a momentous attempt to communicate with some sort of higher power, whether that be with ourselves or the un-communicative surroundings that have always just silently watched us for as long as we’ve been here. The creation of God: A deep sense of loneliness. How could it not have been any other way?



SD