The earth here is the texture and the colour of very fine-grind coffee. People other than myself must come here to pace and roam like I do. Why else would the earth be so fine? So worn down and flat level.
I can't say those who else that come are looking for what I'm looking for, but still, I'm not the only one that does frequent. And although I'm sure I'm not the only one, I never see another soul out here, ever. Not even a tractor or an old truck on the road off the highway that I take to get here. Not a stitch of life except me and the earth and some greenery (alphalpha) off yonder, to the east, where the dirt field ends. There are bunches of trees (four by my squinted count), in the distance, but I can't see that far to know if anyone or anything darts in and out of there. If something lives inside a house made of a bunch of trees-- Sweet and nNatural. Other than those bunches of trees, that greenery, the sky, and my dirt field, there's nothing. I don't even hear birds chirping or see them flying through the sky. Not one little scurrier either. Nothing but me with the beat of a heart.
My pilgrimage, today, was for reason more than just to bask in the sun and let my mind wander in the open air. Whenever I buy a new book, I like to come out here and kick it around in the dirt a little bit. Beat it up some. Get some personality on it before I begin. I usually like to peruse flea markets and places like that for second-hand books. There's more than likely some good wear on those. But the one I'm about to read evaded me at every place I went.
My new book is an old one: Frank Herbert's DUNE.
I've read it already, but it's just so good I've got to again. And to rough up that new book store-shine gloss when it skids and skips across the face of the dirt field, oh man, I couldn't wait. Getting dusty from so many fine particles of earth, scratches on the cover and back page from the more burly and solid stuff, is too appropriate to not do. Arrakis, for fuck sake. Enough said.(Yeah, yeah, yeah...Arrakis is a desert planet(sand & spice, little fertile soil)...whatever...can you suspend your disbelief for a goddamn second?)
After a few kicks and tosses, I feel a speck of rain hit the webbing of hand between my thumb and index finger. When I look up there is this grey that is starting to crowd the shining sun from my patch of dirt field, but it didn't cool down. The late-June heat still wraps itself around me, keeping me well comfortable.
All at once, the grey cloud dumps an unexpected, flash-shower on me. I rush to get my book from off the ground. I don't want to ruin it by getting it sodden and muddy, to the point that pages start to tear easily and get stuck in a mash and all warped and wavy. I'm just after a little character, no more.
Luckily, I got to it in time. The watermarking was minimal. But when I looked down at the book in my hands, it was beautiful. Something in me didn't want to hold the book close to my chest and run off to the cover of my car to keep it dry. So I held it out in the shower for ten seconds that could've been minutes. I feel the book get heavy, soaking up the shower. The binding glue started to loosen at the top and bottom and the pages started to curl up slightly. The cover ended up coming right off, but the mass of words and story stayed as one. The edged were a bit on the sopping side, but whole. The cover didn't matter to me anyway.
In that instant, the shower stopped abruptly. The dirt field was now a muck field, and keeping my traction proved precarious. But as that fat grey cloud wandered off to pour itself out somewhere else, and that hot sun and summer heat came once more back to stretch across this field of dirt, I feel great.
Catharsis might be the word. ©