It’s been a month since I dropped off the face of the internet, no, the Earth– and I’ve been thinking about that expression more consistently than almost anything else.
A face is the part of the body that is presented to view or has a particular function, like the face of a giant watchtower clock, like the face of big-eyed Disney skunk.
Is the internet the face of the Earth now? Or on the face of the Earth, perhaps? (Like a nose, or a nose ring.) Or, maybe, is it the underbelly– soft and vulnerable and hidden from view?
Have I been on the face of the Earth enough to say I’ve fallen off of it? An eyelash falls off the face of a person, but it’s hardly worth mentioning let alone in need of it’s own cliché.
Can you fall off an underbelly? Dead ticks do.
Either way I haven’t been posting anywhere because things happened. I took out a shovel to get to clearing them– and then– as if I wasn’t busy enough– more things happened right on top of those things, and eventually I ended up in a giant junkyard of things that happened.
Perhaps instead of a junkyard, we could call it a garden? I’m still in the weeds, in a pile of overgrowth, but there are beautiful things around and I did bring my shovel so progress is made even when it’s not enough progress.
It never really seems to be enough, does it.
If this is the face of the Earth, then I apologize for what I’ve done here. Sometimes there’s too much scar for good garden.
One of my favorite blossomings of the last month has been a move. I live very close to where I used to live, but it is something different now, something bigger, something safer.
I will show you pictures of my room once I find it under the pile of boxes, once I lift the pile of boxes off of me, once I unbury myself from this junkyard, no, this scarring, no, this garden.
Yes, this garden.
Sometimes the face of the internet feels, to me, like the face of a giant watchtower clock. Click, click, click, click, click. It’s soothing at times, a lullaby of sorts.
Lately it has felt more like stalking, and I have found myself hiding from what used to rock me to bed.
But that’s how faces are.
They can change with the sun, or with a naming.
Just look at the Earth, with a face like skunk– all dance and warning, all odor and slink, and piles and piles and piles of things.
I can call them flowers if I want to.
Part 1 of ?
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