November peetters out as mist sweeps into the valley; who can refrain from nurturing thoughts of a changing planet? I can’t help but to think of this year ahead – this year gestating within a womb of history and prophesy, reality and fantasy – as a chance for newness. I am already listing new year’s resolutions like bullets on a shopping list. I have bullets to write about from this last year – so many violent tragedies strewn into town from a barrel. There are skeletons of stories to muscle into being, memoirs brewing inside my skull, and yet I still can’t get myself to write daily.
This photo makes me excruciatingly happy. A Georgia-esk vision of our future. Bone beauty meets a mountain burning, and we’re not sure whether to trust the river; our pearly vertebrae all that anchors us to the earth. What’s left of it.
This month our land was raped as if in mountain top removal by the excavator we hired, and it’s hard to see it as a good thing. Three foot slabs of concrete, curving, set into the ground to hold water that has always flowed downhill. The slices into the earth were severe: truly mindblowing. The topsoil that was mixed with subsoil that was mixed with engine oil and the sweat from a man with one eye, I just can’t make sense of it. Is forcing water through pipes and into our home a good thing? My brain is weary from hauling water in a plastic jug, and from keeping the hose defrosted. I crave the luxury of washing dishes in a sink, a bathtub to soak in on Saturday nights. Hot water for my tired skin. A full vessel in my home. The security of water simply captured as it flows towards the center of the earth.