L'aura del Campo

Be real in present tense. One tattooed angel [227]

I told Harlow Flick, Right Fielder : "As for 'mandrake' — that's another issue. [Shouldn't we] be writing about cellphones, IT, Uber Eats, the Great Die-Off (of cash, conversation and cafes), the thousand masks we wear, how fear consumes us.

Once I was a gardener. I doubt most urban young people know the names of flowers and trees. They are concrete objects, but unknown and thereby devoid of any emotional response. Even smells... how many can relate to eau-de-outhouse? Or even a rotten egg. Who buys eggs? Not those ordering out everyday for lunch.

Without shared experiences we have difficulty communicating across divides of geography, religion, social class or generations."

Cellphones: speak to the ether, no hands attached, untethered to a cord, tethered to expectations instead, one is always on call. How slippery? Dismay as it's dropped.

IT: I can do this work anywhere at anytime without having to deal with real people face to face. I relish symbols and ideas, how abstractions are clean yet complicated, yet devoid of emotion. Numbers and letters swirl in my dreams, eyes open or shut.

Uber Eats: order it and it shall be yours. No need to cook. No mess to clean up. As long as it's on our menu it will appear like magic at your door, still warm, made by anonymous, devoid of any personal touch. Packaged.

Great Die-off: fearful of hugs, fearful of unknown faces, we longed to be left alone to our own inner dramas until we forgot how to listen, how to speak; we became fearful of filthy cash transactions, trading them for plastic that allowed us to be tracked by banks; we drove through a place where we could pick-up our preordered latte without human interaction.
We gleefully killed cash, conversations and those dreaded slow as espresso cafes, sterilized unwanted smells.

We wear masks everyday to hide our poverty, our zits, our true emotions but demand that others show us their face —
but only if they don't think like us or look like us or... we get to hide; that's our right, a privilege we deny to others. Our voices muffled, undistinguishable.

I don't like new people or eat anything I don't already know. My comfort zone occupies the Past. No change is allowed. My world is flat, anything beyond the horizon will remain unknown. No need to think about a future I can't imagine.

I'm sure others can do better. Maybe write about silk flowers and plastic toys devoid of smell or sound.

My poem from yesterday:

One tattooed angel

         for Alison

ten meters above this icy flow / shoes shuffle in fear / on a slippery walkway —
slow and slower still / till a light touch to the shoulder / and a few kind words intervene /
as a choir of birds and flowers / and one tattooed angel / guide my feet across stilled waters

[178.227] (11.september.2021)

I thought I saw Alison. I spoke with Ingrid, a nurse, about covid. Ate Syrian coconut sweet harisa I picked up at farmers market with a cup of strong steaming coffee. Wrote a postcard to Sorji, chatted with Angelica. The AQI wasn't too bad; I could breathe! It was cool so I wore a long-sleeved maroon shirt. The Montana Grizz won at home; I listened to the radio commentary and the crowd noise. Lots of guests in town; horrible traffic.

Such were my thoughts.

~555 words
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