It was as simple as wanting to feel the security of an enclosed circle.
The pursuit of peace of mind that comes with the construction of simple boundaries; the peace of mind that comes with the annexation of mundane interruptions; the peace of mind that comes with a lack of monotonous tasks, tasks, tasks.
Negotiating photocopier jams.
Searching for a parking space.
Choosing between crushed pineapple in juice or crushed pineapple in light syrup.
Removing mosquito corpses from the halogen porch fixture.
Spraying sweat stains with air freshener.
Buying council approved rubbish bags.
-ings. Life was just a collection of inging’s.
And so it was the “ings” in the end. Building, building, building to a tidal wave that would never break, unless he would. The "ings". The reason he chucked in the towel and staked his claim down by the mouth of Lester Creek, between the rabbit hole and the rug of Virginia Bugleweed and Sweet Mint, and strung up that curtain between life and stasis.
Thinking himself a born again wilderness man, believing the skills to live off the land are ingrained, waiting to be tapped; forgetting they were learnt and cultivated and then abandoned, classified redundant many generations ago, in favor of slaughterhouses and indoor refrigeration.
Thinking, if he just knew that bugleweed could be used to treat snakebites, and sweet mint, stomachache and chest pains, he might discover a more authentic self behind this former suit and tied construction.
Thinking, if he sits for long enough inside his camo print Blackfoot, staring out the smoke flap, this entombed knowledge will somehow descend upon him like a runny shit from a passing tree sparrow.
Thinking, if all else fails, he can Google it on the solar-charged, Galaxy S III, hidden under his North Face jacket.
But really, thinking…
You can never quite escape the “ings”.
Not even when doing nothing; itself composed of “ings”: breathing, blinking, beating.
One “ing” spawning another, breeding like cottontails. As breathing begets functioning, blinking begets seeing and beating begets breaking (the most problematic “ing” of all).
Yes, you can never quite escape the “ings”. He knows this now.
Not even here in-between the rabbit hole and the rug of Virginia Bugleweed down by Lester Creek.
Soil Hands: http://www.localfoodcolumbus.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/soil-hands.jpg