Greener Grass

Once upon a time there were two cows. They roamed a sprawling, fenceless pasture and rarely ever bumped into each other. Then one day it happened that while busy nibbling from atop the same hillside, oblivious to the fact they were steps away, they looked up and stood face to face. Having not spoken for so long they decided the best way to break the ice was to have a glass of milk and share stories under a nearby tree.

After laughing and tales of journeys, one mentioned, “This is probably the best grass I’ve eaten in my life,” while dipping chunks of it into the milk like we do cookies.

“Oh yes, this is the best piece of land for miles.” The other agreed in between slurping and chewing.

“Still, something tells me there’s even better grass out there.” The cow climbed to it’s feet at the thought.

“Will you go now?” The other said surprised. “So soon, though we’ve just sit down?”

With just a kind look backwards, the adventurer slowly walked away, answering without a word. As it’s silhouette shrank on the horizon, the cow under the tree sat in silence for a long time. It picked a blade of grass and examined it against the setting sun. “Yes…you do seem to be quite the tastiest I’ve ever known. So why am I in no hurry to see if there waits an ever sweeter blade? Will you become just as dry and boring as the last --if I were to stay?”

By now the other cow had disappeared.

The blade of grass began to shift and sway in the cows hoof. “I will tell you only once cow,” the little sliver of green responded. “You will always have complaint and devotion, every step you take or don’t, this is our curse. The dissatisfaction is intentional. It’s so your weight will land upon more of us. So your eyes will be exposed to our many shades. For we all wish to be inside of you. And the affection overrides lack long enough so your shadow can cool us, your tongue can thrill and your feet can rest. ”

The cow listened and thought about what the grass said. “Then let your wish be granted,” mumbled the cow and consumed the little blade.

death

There was a terrible accident on the freeway tonight. From where I sat, you could see the pile of twisted metal that stole a life.

The single driver didn’t notice the abandoned tire on the left hand shoulder. It didn’t help his old Buick was heavy and slow to respond. The girl following him close behind was staring at the moon. It was so big. “It get’s that way in winter,” a rebellious teen told her before she left work. “We wobble on our axis and now, the earth’s closer to it.”

Tonight the moon was so much brighter than the single driver’s break lights. The impact was sudden and violent. Her car, a 70s classic, slammed into the Buick’s rear. The girl’s head met glass. The inertia of the moving vehicles threw them across all four lanes and back again. The cars danced with one another, barely missing passing traffic before sliding to a halt on the shoulder of the 405. The car that held the girl who had been looking at the moon managed to wrap around a pole like aluminum foil.

She struggled only for a moment. All she could move was her tongue. It tasted blood and then nothing. Numbness stole her fear. Her eyes could see passing red traffic lights leaving trails, through the streaks hung the same white light in the sky that had captivated her before this death.

She laughed as it faded into nothing.

Inspiration From the Alchemist

The desert ate you my dear

Wind shaped horizons and prickly plants dot the stretching landscape

Wide and long and far as the eye can see

Empty earth beaten by the most relentless hands of the sun

reminds me that you are not there.

On your bike you rode away

Searching for dreams and adventures and women and dances under the moon

But I see the desert

Before skyscrapers and track communities and irrigation took it away

And at least now, the view expands further into the sky

Where I look out for your return

Whether or not it’s just a mirage

Whether or not I fall in love again with someone new

Even though I fear you will too

Or that the years will be so many

Undeterred

I will pray to the desert

Patiently wait

that the dry and absent air will carry you back to my open arms.

For both you and the sand have taught me a great lesson

Cherish every drop.

Your memories will be like the morning dew that sustains the cacti

And I will walk alone along the edges of ancient river beds that whisper to me

How time has turned seas to dust and dust to seas.

Living Collectively

How many people do you know who do not collect some thing? Think hard. I’m sure you will find it more difficult than it seems. Whether it’s movie stubs, watches, clothes, fish tanks or cars, I can’t think of a single person I know who doesn’t reserve some spot on their walls, under their beds, or in their hearts for a particular pleasure. I even have friends that actually collect people, though they may be unaware of their subconscious motives. It’s flattering to be part of their assortment.

The thought haunted me. Why do we collect things? Do all of us? Surely all of us can’t, right? Eventually the idea became words that spilled onto my brother’s girlfriend, Honey. I asked her, randomly at the moment it happened, when we were watching my brother play video games. “Do you know anyone that collects nothing? What would someone who collected nothing be like?”

I imagined, similar to a vagabond, with perhaps many unusual and exciting adventures to share. Barren, un-owned walls and a hippie beard. He probably wouldn’t shower much. It seems the probability of it being a man would be greater as well—women tend to carry bags everywhere they go. Maybe it could only be a monk, dressed in orange robes thinking about thinking. What would this anti-collector if you will, be like? Would they be the violent type, capable of maiming kittens and old ladies? Would their anti-collecting ways foreshadow their sadistic future? But then again, even serial killers collect lives.

“Actually, come to think of it…I don’t collect anything.

It’s me. That kind of person is me.” Honey looked at me like a child admitting to pouring dirt in the coffee tin.

I thought about it. She did not really have collections of trinkets or pets or people. I couldn’t concede to her theory just yet. Not everything one accumulates is obvious.

“I have no hobbies. It’s me.” A pouty frown followed her shameful sounding confession.

“Is it you? You are what someone ‘like that’ is like…?” I said looking at her with new found interest.

I had found my specimen. Or had I?

A day later and it’s safe to say, she’s not it. I’m sure she has a pretty decent purse compilation. One could make the argument that some collections have “themes”. Like accumulating things that bring you comfort, this I believe she does well. All the pieces are there. A super fine mattress, TV, socks, shower gels, and everything one needs to prevent unpleasantness. For now Honey can rest easy, it seems she's no different then the rest of us.

So who are these anti-collectors? Is it even humanly possible? I guess if you wanted, you could argue that even the vagabond gathers his stories and the monk his enlightenment.

Pues, if we are all collectors, what will be in yours?