Deep in the sea of possibilities, there is a mare. It stands defiant against the waves, which oscillate between gentle and mighty. The mare, black and gleaming, with hair rolling in the wind along its bones -- as you walk towards it, the head faintly stirs.
You're holding hands with Johnny who has a look which could curdle milk. He's positively palpating. Saucer eyes bore into the mare's side, cornflour hair spiraling up to the sky. The mare turns his head to Johnny, one eye open, one eye glazed. The glazed eye hides a yellow pupil, dulled and sickly.
The mare is yearning for the same thing Johnny desires. You are not there with them yet. You pull back, the connection between the boy and his horse is too taut. If it severs, the world would end. Suddenly, you wish you'd brought a camera - maybe documenting the meeting would spare Johnny the pain. The pain of lack. The absence.
Nothing crumbles mountains like the thought of a worse tomorrow.
Then the horse, still outside of reach, lets out a neigh. It is all Johnny needs. He breaks your grip and spirits through the tide.
You watch your best friend, the tree against your eroding hills, disappear into the breaking foam. Stumbling, breathlessly calling out. Maybe the horse will lay down its pride and let Johnny touch. You smile, tucking a loose strand from your wrap behind your ear. As you gather your skirt back around your waist, stepping backwards, one inch at a time, you whisper. The sound floats in the wind, dissipating as soon as it leaves your lips.
"There is no land but the land. There is no sea but the sea."
***
We were always about twenty years behind the trends, and my mind would always belong to 1975. In Daggar, people still blasted Eurythmics out of their cars so that the pedestrians could sing along. When I met Johnny Carson for the third but really the first time, he was playing a busted tape of The Police's best hits, thumping the
You're holding hands with Johnny who has a look which could curdle milk. He's positively palpating. Saucer eyes bore into the mare's side, cornflour hair spiraling up to the sky. The mare turns his head to Johnny, one eye open, one eye glazed. The glazed eye hides a yellow pupil, dulled and sickly.
The mare is yearning for the same thing Johnny desires. You are not there with them yet. You pull back, the connection between the boy and his horse is too taut. If it severs, the world would end. Suddenly, you wish you'd brought a camera - maybe documenting the meeting would spare Johnny the pain. The pain of lack. The absence.
Nothing crumbles mountains like the thought of a worse tomorrow.
Then the horse, still outside of reach, lets out a neigh. It is all Johnny needs. He breaks your grip and spirits through the tide.
You watch your best friend, the tree against your eroding hills, disappear into the breaking foam. Stumbling, breathlessly calling out. Maybe the horse will lay down its pride and let Johnny touch. You smile, tucking a loose strand from your wrap behind your ear. As you gather your skirt back around your waist, stepping backwards, one inch at a time, you whisper. The sound floats in the wind, dissipating as soon as it leaves your lips.
"There is no land but the land. There is no sea but the sea."
***
We were always about twenty years behind the trends, and my mind would always belong to 1975. In Daggar, people still blasted Eurythmics out of their cars so that the pedestrians could sing along. When I met Johnny Carson for the third but really the first time, he was playing a busted tape of The Police's best hits, thumping the
