Saturday, March 19, 2011

Shade




There are trees up above, floating. In Manhattan they descend subtly. First one floating mass emerges, then another. Fifty, one hundred, thousands appear, blotting out the sky. And the sky, being a gracious host, is a perfect background of blue. It loses its position as the one and only upward marvel-- a discussion is for another time. Roots stick out from the trees, and remain in perfect permanent positions, resembling spider arms, or distorted witch fingers, menacingly pointing at the tree gazers.

“Dude, there are probably, like, aliens or something hiding in those green things. They wanna make you believe those are trees, but dude those aren’t trees, they’re transporters!” One high Manhattan resident claimed to a group of close confidants, while simultaneously another group of city-dwellers claimed, “God. Simply God and you know it. He sent them for a reason, guys, it must be a test. If we destroy them, he’ll send fire and brimstone down, just like in the bible. I swear I’m leaving the country if the government shoots them down or something!”

Emphatic claims and speculation are muttered by all, while the peacefully floating arbors come under constant watch. Their leaves sway with the wind, and their noiselessness echoes above the New York City bustle. Enormous masses of people clutter the streets to look up initially, but as minutes and hours pass only the homeless remain to ponder the world.  And life goes on after a momentary pause in a busy city.

The United States government listens to the pleas of the Christian masses and hesitantly decides to direct missile attention towards them. More trees appear, this time all over the world; they make a heavy darkness. The smell of leaves stalk every living soul, and the darkness grows, slowly. Frantic world rulers, not knowing what to do (after it is determined these were indeed trees, with no apparent means of floatation), wrestle with the idea of destroying them.

A young child in Mississippi goes outside every day, twice a day, to throw dirt clods at the trees, and they appear to grow closer to land. His big blue eyes grow big, and his forehead crumples like folded dough, as clumpy dirt launches from his hand, and drizzles back down onto him. He looks at his tree-house and wonders if he’ll get to fly when it takes him up. Smiles. In his smile are the limitless nature of life and the possibilities for the future. His faith and hope in life is beautiful, and he stays outside for hours, not knowing why he is throwing clods of dirt.

“THEY DON’T BELONG HERE!” Some jailed fellow from Istanbul yells (in English, of course) as he tightly grips the window bars of his cell. In his indignant expression there is nothing but the longing for freedom. His thoughts are those of all of humanity, because the world can't help but to feel the shackles the phenomenon has locked onto its ankles. The shackles don't seem too tight, their presence is the root of discomfort. Hate, pure unadulterated hate, develops for the trees, and the people yell. Protests, screaming outbursts, erupt at all times by the people in the shade. The smell of sewer pipes is now unidentifiable in the wake of the lowering leaves.

The missiles fly through the air and shoot down the trees, but there simply aren’t enough in the world to get rid of all of the clutter. “Bomb the sky!!!!” The trees continue to lower. They quietly approach as frantic scientists attempt to explain the phenomenon with large words and hastily published studies. The pages of citations don't explain what is happening, and the trees still plan to meet land. “They’re plotting, those twigs up there. But I’ll take a chainsaw to the first one of ‘em that messes funny around here!” In every thought the trees are personified, and alive. Twig becomes gun, leaf becomes bullet.

They are nearing land and this world becomes claustrophobic; the people’s souls are choking now. The dirt clod children weep openly in the streets as they await impending doom, forsaken by the comfort of science and political speeches. The world is absolutely helpless and distraught, and more papers are published, quickly, in buildings that will soon be underneath the trees.

Something must be done. Politicians and military generals begin to fear that the tragedy may go away abruptly and life will resume (Hope never dies). They don’t wish to look like invalids to the masses. “Bomb the sky!” They shout to the world, and the world shouts with them, until a chanting globe cheers for tree doom in unison. “Bomb the sky,” becomes humanity’s last call, and leaders hit the buttons releasing atomic bombs everywhere. Cheering pours through the streets, and is heard slightly above the chanting.

Somewhere in Arkansas, a man with a grimace and a cane looks out the window, and thanks the lord he never rose to the call “Go green.” Somewhere in Tel Aviv, a woman under a tree realizes she could have been eating fudge pops and donuts for the last year. Somewhere in Boston, a drunken student burns his book, and then cries, because he realizes his 4.0 won’t get him into medical school. The bombs are let loose, but the sad helplessness kills the world long before the explosions. But it is sweet to see the world join together, even if it is in doom. For it is in these moments that humanity can be seen, and nature can be overlooked. Humanity becomes obvious on the faces of the pirates, lunatics, CEOs, and whale watchers. Their human-ness is disturbing, but it has been even more so troubling to those of us who saw it within the banality of the everyday, as the Economist informed us about massacres and economic collapses. It is even more troubling to We who watch the tree death, squirrel death, climate death,
World death on the daily. On our last day, we lay in the shade.

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