They rose up like men. We saw them. Like men they stood.
We shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this one here had plenty of scary warning signs.
The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dug—a coyote maybe, or a coon dog—we couldn’t resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a
wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we sawthe edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself.
When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did
not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since you’re set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered
the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
-Home, Toni Morrison
We shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this one here had plenty of scary warning signs.
The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dug—a coyote maybe, or a coon dog—we couldn’t resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a
wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we sawthe edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself.
When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did
not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since you’re set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered
the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
-Home, Toni Morrison
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I saw a shooting star a few minutes ago. A bright and gigantic one. No one else around me saw it, so I could be hallucinating. It only lasted a fraction of a second but it's the most beautiful thing! A beautiful ball of fire.
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"I have such a desire to sleep and am so much behind in my sleep. A good night, one good
night and all this nonsense will be swept away."
-Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre
night and all this nonsense will be swept away."
-Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre
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"Relax."
They tell me that everywhere I go. It's like I exude this profound air of anxiety. I went to the Salon and the hair dresser reassured me three times. 3 whole times! I thought that might be his way of making everyone feel comfortable but he also asked me if I wasn't used to hair salons. May the Lord smite him dumb!😁
I wrote this little note in Novemeber because it bothered me. And today I found a similar sentiment written in Nora Ephron's Heartburn. Even the hairdresser part.
"People are always telling me to relax—the hairdresser tells me to relax, and the dentist, and the exercise teacher."
-Heartburn, Nora Ephron
There's nothing new under the sun. Not the things that happen. Not the wordings we use to interpret them. Oh, well...
Anyways, it's a great book. Yanks you out of your reading slump.
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Book Buff💪
Heartburn_-_Nora_Ephron.pdf
This might be my best read of this year. It's interesting that the documentaries about Nora, even the best ones, make her out to be vengeful in how she handled the story of her cheating husband. But I find she was impossibly gracious and forgiving in the book. I'm in awe! Maybe the movie adaptation is colder, but I have yet to see it.
I feel a shift in the force. I don't know if I'm biased by recent news, I barely follow the news but I'm vaguely aware of what's going on around the world. I think we're on the brink of a global shift toward something. I don't know what that is specifically, but I see possibilities amid this whole political and technological chaos. Endless possibilities for the arts and humanities. I think when Nietzsche said that we have art in order not to die from reality, he didn't mean that art is merely an escape from reality-although it can be and rightfully so- but that art is a digestatble presentation of reality.
I think we need artists and we'll continue to need them. To catch the spirit of our time. To gather the rubbles of collapsed cultures and build something out of them. I think the pendulum will swing away from efficiency culture and it needs something meaningful and true when it reaches the other end if it's to spend a considerable time there. Oh, and I think the humanities will endure despite AI.
I think we need artists and we'll continue to need them. To catch the spirit of our time. To gather the rubbles of collapsed cultures and build something out of them. I think the pendulum will swing away from efficiency culture and it needs something meaningful and true when it reaches the other end if it's to spend a considerable time there. Oh, and I think the humanities will endure despite AI.
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Forwarded from solivagant
Yup, you're very right. Actually I think the fact that access to information makes the world seem like it's more chaotic than it is, is the exact reason that the world is in actuality getting more objectively chaotic. It's like an Ouroboros cycle in a way.
Culture is very much affected by perception. So a lot of cultures perceiving changes in places both across the world and right on their doorsteps near instantaneously, I think, increases the rate at which people are instigating change in their own cultures.
Culture is very much affected by perception. So a lot of cultures perceiving changes in places both across the world and right on their doorsteps near instantaneously, I think, increases the rate at which people are instigating change in their own cultures.
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“A PERSON’S FAITH GOES AT ITS OWN PACE,” Owen
Meany said. “THE TROUBLE WITH CHURCH IS THE SERVICE. A SERVICE IS CONDUCTED FOR A MASS AUDIENCE. JUST WHEN I START TO LIKE THE HYMN, EVERYONE PLOPS DOWN TO PRAY. JUST WHEN I START TO HEAR THE PRAYER, EVERYONE POPS UP TO SING. AND WHAT DOES THE STUPID SERMON HAVE TO DO WITH GOD? WHO KNOWS WHAT GOD THINKS OF CURRENT EVENTS? WHO CARES?"
- A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving
Meany said. “THE TROUBLE WITH CHURCH IS THE SERVICE. A SERVICE IS CONDUCTED FOR A MASS AUDIENCE. JUST WHEN I START TO LIKE THE HYMN, EVERYONE PLOPS DOWN TO PRAY. JUST WHEN I START TO HEAR THE PRAYER, EVERYONE POPS UP TO SING. AND WHAT DOES THE STUPID SERMON HAVE TO DO WITH GOD? WHO KNOWS WHAT GOD THINKS OF CURRENT EVENTS? WHO CARES?"
- A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving
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