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posted 11 months ago, edited 11 months ago
the white oak tree in this photo is 580-years-old. you can see one of her sisters further in the background.
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diamond dayTender oak leaves and acorns, a slow warm wind kicking them up into little tornados, little rockslides. Along Silas's path have been little stacks of rocks, too, some flat slices, some delicately pieced together towers of pebbles. To insects and other small things they'd be like skyscrapers. Towers of Babel. She keeps her tail tucked close to her body while she walks, thriftstore hiking boots protecting the soft pads of her feet. The skirt swishes silently. It's stiff brown denim and it is loose, too big, tightened with a belt and wrinkled at the waist line from being cinched. Simple sweater, Nordic print and brown and very soft from age and washes. It's early spring. This area of the trail hasn't been fully tidied, lots of detritus everywhere. Rocks, thick blankets of leaves, soggy and fat and heavy from recent rain. Pine needles and leaves coagulated into mats because of the decay. All of this litters and muddles the path, thin red trees stretching up to the sky like so many nimble needles, birdsong occasional and sparse. On walks in summertime she uses her tapes. Listens to songs, headphones over her big, soft, velvety ears. Listening to Milk and Honey, maybe something else old and crackly and nostalgic and slow, swapping the tapes frequently from her pockets as whim led her to. 'Low simulation' she had heard it described as. For her, it was a balm to the way her insides sometimes felt so tattered... Today, though, some intuition of the heart and soul had told her to listen to the world, and she had reluctantly left it at home on her bedside table. So she was hiking this trail, early in the season. More of a walk than a hike but she thought maybe any walk in what she thought of as 'deep nature' was a hike; if it wasn't paved, it was hiking. If one might spot a badger or a fox or get eaten by a mountain lion? Hiking. Lost on this train of thought she would realize her feet were moving off the cleared path and onto a winding, thinner path between some trees to her right. A footpath, not one cleared but trodden over so many times through the years that it lay just flat and just wide enough for feet and bodies to slide through, like a singular thread through a shirt. Normally, she would never venture off path. She wasn't silly. She was very serious, in fact, about how dangerous that was. But something in her chest was tugging her, some hand on her upper back pushing, something beckoning and urging. Come see me. She would look behind her and take note of any landmarks. Funky frogshaped boulder. All right. Down the path and right back and if not, she would end up kitty jerky. Silas's thick boots don't crunch as she starts down along the thin footpath, but they do squelch. The moisture does not penetrate, blessedly. The trees are very close to her, close enough to knock into her elbows if she is not careful, doesn't keep them tucked into her waist like a prehistoric creature. She thought idly of the giant ground sloth, the megatherium, as she slowly progressed. How it could reach one shaggy arm up, bend a tree like an aforethought elbow, and eat from it. How sometimes she felt that way around shorter folk, too, being tall herself... Abruptly she finds that, surrounding her on all sides, are an absolutely oppressive amount of trees. Tucked in close and almost breathing. Nothing in front or behind but the thin path, thin like an exposed fingerbone. Tall spikes of rust color, dark and mushy earth, big pale sky of light. Fear tightens her chest and her breath is crushed in that grip, too, big fist grabbing up from her stomach and trying to climb up. What a mistake. And as she starts to turn, her small pink nose catches the scent of something. Salt water. If she keeps going, there will be ocean water. But then, what if she is well and truly and fully lost? But she's never seen the ocean. And it is so close, so close that, when she ventures to let her tongue peek out, she can taste the salt in the air, as though the granules are rolling and dancing across the overwhelming and heady petrichor like glass smashed by a hammer. Into smithereens. The thought of the water so close she could hold it in her arms is too strong of a temptation. So she keeps going. Wanders forth with anxiety in her step, on rubbery legs, passing between the trees. Like how she imagines memories get lost, slipping between thoughts, shrinking to a pointed atom that slides like a dust mote between shafts of light. The ocean is close now and she knows because she hears it moving. Breathing. Waves connecting with the shore, over and over, like punches. Crashing isn't enough to describe the way her ears hear each droplet hit the earth then recede back home. Snaking in rivulets over-- Innumerable pebbles. No sand, or at least not visible. The path ends in an opening that reveals a stretch of nothing but billions of damp pebbles in many grey-and-earthen tones. Dead stars. And a massive and neverending expanse of ocean that matches the sky. Pale gray. Frothing with foam as though it has rabies. Not a soul in this place. The beach stretches left, and right, and ends at that rusty treeline there, too, squared off in a long rectangle. It feels godly and sacred and very old. Ancient. Very big and very small and very cold. Another planet. In this place she feels God acutely everywhere but also feels very alone under the great magnitude of it, the majesty. Alone and very small. Observed by the big Eye. She tentatively steps forward, cold wind slowly rolling into her like misty ice. Her legs are still very shaky. She is scared of this place but so intensely curious. Feels undeserving but desires desperately to be familiar. "I am just a lamb." She whispers, softly, stepping slowly over the loose pebbles. In some places the foot traffic is evident but she does not step there. Whatever feet they belonged to were respectful of this place because there is no litter to be seen, no leftovers, no human structures or belongings. No boats, no chairs. No bottles or styrofoam or cigarette butt's. Just little depressions from footpaws and boots and even then she cannot make out the precise shapes. Terrified she makes her way across to the water. Kneels slowly. Feels the damp slowly soak into her skirt and touch the fur of her knees. Her glasses get lightly misted by the salt water and she just looks, mouth open and tasting the air. Silas sits this way, mind mostly empty, watching. Hypnotized by the swell. Enchanted by the flow, the crash, the noise. It is so much all at once that, with a shuddering and raw gasp, she begins to cry. Feels her heart open like a wardrobe and gush blood like a rotten fountain, pulsing in heavy, stuttery beats. The catharsis and release of it pulls a soft scream from the pit of her stomach and it racks her lithe, long form. A ribbon whipping in a hard wind. Making sound that isn't heard over the rush. Whispering fervently, stream of consciousness, whatever word crawls out from between her lips. Begging and questioning and cursing. Grabs a few fistfuls of pebbles and squeezes them. Claws at the ground and feels her handpads ache with cold. It grounds her, the earthly feeling. That and her glasses slipping down and off of her long nose and plopping with a sharp clatter onto the pebbles. It renders the view muddly and blurry like a late Monet and she quickly retrieves them and wipes them on any dry fabric of her clothing that she can find. Sleeve. Puts them back on. No scratches. She doesn't cry anymore. Sits back with her feet under her bottom and watches, again, this time without as much fear. Almost like friends. -- The way back is fine. She finds it fine. Treads the path quickly, though, not wanting the wasteland-aloneliness feeling to be bearing down on her shoulders anymore. Wants to get in her car and go home and make tea with honey and climb in bed and read. Get warm. Sleep. Get up and go get soup and baguette later. Have space to reflect on what just happened and wonder if it was good or not. Her little hatchback is green and old and she loves it. She calls her Ivy. Silas's keys are on a dinged up carabiner hanging from her belt and she unlocks the car, sits in, and locks the door immediately. It smells good inside, like lilac and old seats and coffee. French vanilla and caramel. "Thank you." She mumbles, in her whispery voice, and lays her head back against the headrest. Starts to close her big, clear eyes, just for a moment. Between the slits of her lids she sees lightning spider across the sky in a great explosion of tributaries, electric veins, so bright it turns the darkling day into full sun. It flashes this way, flickering and rolling in ways for what she guesses is maybe three seconds, before fading and being immediately suffixed by probably the loudest thunder she's ever heard in her life. Silas makes a choking sound and claps her hands over her ears, folds them down over her cheeks and slams her eyes closed. It doesn't block much of the sound. Her forehead makes contact she didn't know was impending with the steering wheel and the horn gives an elongated 'neeeeeeeeeeeeet' as she hunkers down in shocked horror. It rolls like a thousand dropped bowling balls, like God dropped His marbles (maybe His pocket tore?) and the sound rattles the car, vibrating the windows. Off in the distance, where she knelt on the pebble beach, is a leftover smoldering structure of fulgurite, spidering and strange and alien. Twisted and gnarled and textured in the approximate shape of her silhouette.trophy