story-time

I see you. as you read this. I see you without doubt or fear for my story is one to be true so what i have to fear? you, you read this and you do so through the palpable haze of incredulity and misgiving...its forgivable, your fear. beginning any story is one of faith.

as i see you so now can you see Him. he isn't exactly what one might expect from the circumstances of his living. you don't know his circumstances. all you see is a fairly fair skinned man with the sinewed build of a person who lives off of the capacity of their body to catch or harvest their food. his hair is long, at least to the lower most tip of his shoulder blades, held back in a thong of reed rope or animal guts. his beard, too, is very long and like his hair is completely and unflinchingly brown. no, not black like a ravens wing nor the flaxen gold of a wheat field. such a deep chestnut brown that its proliferation over his body almost camolflagues him into the tree against which he leans. Almost. to say that however does not mean that were we too bring out our view of our man to outside the immediate vicinity of his person we might not loose him in the tree...it would be easy to lose a team of such men in this tree.

come out here, where we float above a landscape that may ring familiar but is like one you've never seen nor will ever see. despite also being of a fiction, this world surrounding you is one flung so far into a theoretical future that conjecture on evolutionary patterns and tectonic movement are moot.

immediately ahead where there once was our man there is but a wall of vaguely undulating green: leaves as large as a queen sized bed offset by bunches of fruit likened to huge grapes in the shape of black apples. fruit and foliage of such proportion can only grow on a tree to match (or at least it is safe to say so in a world we can contrast but never fairly compare to our own) and they do so on a tree as high as would please a viking to see the gods nested in its upper most branches. our man isnt in its upper most branches but lower, 'round the middle on joint where branch and trunk meet as wide around as a london underground tube. around him, beside the fruit are the diving roots of the parasite banyon seed that give this particular tree structure enough to hold homes for half a crowded city block of people.

come back to him, to our focus. as quickly and smoothly as oiled fat his hand is out and back holding one of the black glass apples from a nearby bunch. no sooner has he his prize but that bunch is gone, wrapped in what looks like a purple slug large enough to slowly and deliberately eat a truck. this slug is far too fast for such metallic malice, and besides it comes from a hitherto unseen chamber of the trees immense coverage so its either a flying purple slug or its, yes a tongue. follow it back to see what every giraffe would dream of becoming if a giraffes skull was predominated with brains instead of stubby horns and tongue. tusked for flair and larger than the super sized cranes of ancient earths "fossil fuel" era, this towering thing inspires images of an ecosystem driven more by aesthetic than economy.


God...this is just so...dry. it makes me so happy to be writing again, to just put anything to letters, but to feel like all i can do with my own baby is make it into some textbook rendition of a much more interesting biography...gawd help the idea man who cant author his own book.
more to come later.