Entry 3.5: Intermission
Where we touch the ground
I left Nepal a few days ago. Back to cramming myself onto buses and trains, and negotiating back alleyways that I probably shouldn’t be. Here, the centrifuge of India’s sprawling cities clarify the meaning of Nepal in my mind. I mused to a friend that you never truly know a place, until you leave it.
And so as I let my thoughts settle again on the meaning of progress, I’ve written a short piece — not all that profound, that reflects some thoughts on this new world of our making, its textures, and what it means to be of the earth.
I’m thinking about, how we are molded by where our feet touch the ground.
Cushioned by smooth asphalt sandals. Trodding upon the unholy remnants of disfigured relics. Metal pull-tabs and plastic pastiche make a mosaic to the traces of ancestry. Mountainous wastelands of our own making, where the higher you stand the more evolved you are. Six inches make a mile.
By the winged grace of Nike we are lifted into a world where our children yearn for the kiss of rubber, to erase the stain of dirt from their soles. With her blessing, we embark on a crusade toward concrete castles, pledging our allegiance to the spectre of a better life. And when the kind embrace of pine needles and fallen leaves no longer feel soft to our skin — we turn to the comfort of knowing, what we wear is what we’re worth.
Or perhaps, are we shaped by where we sit?
Atop worn concrete blocks, tea thermos set aside. Savoring the taste of home from the depths of a plastic bag. The same taste that you’ve found, seated in a white plastic chair, at a restaurant that has begun to expect you.
Perched on a bench, metal rungs pressed against your body. A cold embrace warning against the sin of rest. You sink to grassy shores, making a sandwich with the earth. Filling it with whatever is on hand: a jacket, a plastic bag, a piece of cardboard, or a blanket dutifully packed by a more responsible friend.
Now back to the safety of a wooden seat. High-top, with a footrest that is both too high and too low. Amid the aroma of coffee and chatter, you plug into another world. Your body left safe behind impenetrable panes of glass and class.
What about, how we breathe?
Crisp forest air, the flavor of morning mist. The permeating lightness of rain.
Warm diesel winds, mixed with dust from the dry riverbed. A gift from a passing truck. Your eyes close and face earthward, sheltered within a triangle tent of fabric. Seeking solace in each captured breath of skin and sweat.
The cellular breath of respiration, made equal to the mechanical musings of an electronic god. Held to life by lungs that are not our own.
It must be, how our lips meet the earth.
Water from a stream. Fresh and fragrant. You plunge your head in. Hands and feet braced against water-lapped stones. A prayer, with lips puckered for the kiss of a nymph. This must be ambrosia.
The thin smoothness of a paper cup, coarse against your scalded tongue. Fresh brew mixed with extracts from the plastic lid that you’ve so carefully pressed into place. The flavor of soil, sweat, and bitterness.
A warm coat of liquor. Embers running down your throat. Liquid fire bottled in clear plastic — the shape of Coca Cola. Distilled from apples, they tell you. You’ve heard rumors of how it can make you blind.
The cinnamon sweetness of volcanos. Thick caramel dredges trailing down a crystal bowl. You sip, swirl. Nodding slowly, despite bitter tannins. A shy glance to see if others agree.
Clay gathered from an unknown riverbed. Fired in factories oceans away. Filled with the sound of lemongrass washed under a trickling spigot. The gentle spillage of a bobbing teabag, brought over by a friend you used to know.