Aimee Herman's Blog - Posts Tagged "trees"
On the Road pt. 1
There is something that happens to the brain during a very, very long car ride. It becomes a highway, stretching out, gathering traffic, sending out signs offering helpful bits of information (slow down, working zone). When I am behind the wheel, while he keeps track of license plates, I watch the silent film of landscape; I wonder what it is like to be a tree in the median which never gets climbed, carved into by lovers or hugged; I wonder if I will make it to my fortieth year of existence; I wonder if my mailbox at home has mail for me yet. He wants to talk, but I somehow left my words in Brooklyn. I use the wrong vocabulary here and I don't know the right dialect for manners in the south and I miss the sound of graffiti scraping off tongues that has become such a familiar sound in my city. I guess leaving is the best way to fall in love again.
On the Road pt. 2
“Discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust
Here, the trees are from literature, the kind which hide wild inside its bark. Living within the grass stems and rock formations: lizards and skinny squirrels.
On an early morning romp with the pup, I exhale city from my lungs. My brain forks into memories of past lives. Who was I best? How do I access that corner closet behind my kidneys that houses my widest smile?
Sometimes I fear I am most alone when I am loved.
My pup chases a family of ducks and I think about what part of my body feels most familiar. I contemplate a body not always in panic mode. I channel Proust, grow fingernail long enough to scoop out my left eye (my right one wouldn't budge), and replace it with milkwood. I blink blink blink and attempt a resurrection.
Is it possible to rewrite how we see things.
Here, in the south, Sea Grapes and Cabbage Palms. Maybe I can unfurl the roots in me that just stopped growing.
Maybe I just need to keep digging.
Here, the trees are from literature, the kind which hide wild inside its bark. Living within the grass stems and rock formations: lizards and skinny squirrels.
On an early morning romp with the pup, I exhale city from my lungs. My brain forks into memories of past lives. Who was I best? How do I access that corner closet behind my kidneys that houses my widest smile?
Sometimes I fear I am most alone when I am loved.
My pup chases a family of ducks and I think about what part of my body feels most familiar. I contemplate a body not always in panic mode. I channel Proust, grow fingernail long enough to scoop out my left eye (my right one wouldn't budge), and replace it with milkwood. I blink blink blink and attempt a resurrection.
Is it possible to rewrite how we see things.
Here, in the south, Sea Grapes and Cabbage Palms. Maybe I can unfurl the roots in me that just stopped growing.
Maybe I just need to keep digging.
