Snow Angels in the High Grass

Once, many moons ago, I spent a week living on the couch of some people I barely knew in a small town I had never spent much time in, with too little money and nothing to slow a march of days that seemed to speed by while also being interminably long.  It was September, and each morning and late afternoon a wind would crawl down from the sloping Appalachians and swirl through the wide valley, sifting and reshaping the clouds.  By early afternoon, the sun would begin to set, the lights of distant truck stops making shadows of the nearby hills.

I spent much of the week walking through the unfamiliar neighboorhood, trying to imagine what it would be like to make a life there, behind that fence, in that shed, down that crumbling walkway.  This wasn’t an unusual pursuit, since at the time I was a stranger to adult life everywhere I went, no matter where I laid my head at night.

I had come to this temporary situation after failing to please the last people I had been staying with, and I had come to those folks after failing to please the people before them.  I was now occupying one corner of a dingy living room in a second story efficiency that smelled like dogs despite there being no dogs.  I followed the kind of schedule only the truly underemployed or severely addicted can devise.  Each morning, I would walk to the corner greasy diner that had become my office.  In the evenings I would wander to the pond on the outskirts of town and read. In the evenings I’d sit in the silent dark and write down individual titles to my sleeping dreams from the night before, scribbling details on the insides of book covers and the backs of ATM receipts.

The days came and went like half-remembered tremors.  It got uncharacteristically warm for a few days.  I laid down in the thigh-high grass in a farmer’s field one afternoon and pretended to make a snow angel, but nothing happened.  I remember the buzzing of the insects, and the precise smell, and the feel of the heat on my face which made my outside feel the opposite of my inside, which was dark, frigid, and dying.

It would be interesting, if someone were to make a movie about my life, if they just made it of this single, listless, seamlessly depressing week, leaving the viewer to wonder what could possibly have come before, and be anxious for what was to come after, and then the credits roll, and they never know.  Just leave them with the image of this drunk, solitary, silent 22-year-old, making snow angels in the high grass.

9 Responses to “Snow Angels in the High Grass”

  1. Kyle Sundgren Says:

    That’s one hell of a character study right there. It’d be an under appreciated indie, but it’d be good.

  2. Duane Eugene Miller Says:

    I always find it sad, yet amusing in some way, when people don’t understand how different life can be from one day to the next. Who we were and who we are can be so drastically different that one would never possibly consider connecting the two as the same person and continuum. One version of me has been sitting in a bar for moments or months, the days are dark and too indiscernible to be sure which, while my defenses are being warn down by crooked toothed bar wenches, empty and miserable in their lives, seeking (as I am) for some relief, or just to forget for a little while. But another version of me is sitting in my living room in a comfy recliner with a mug of organic coffee, next to a pink Christmas tree with classical music playing in the kitchen and happy family photos hanging on the walls, typing the stories of this long dead misery. Some people still believe I am that other, regardless of the evidence to the contrary. They have not changed, and for their sanity, must pretend that I have not either. I am the one pretending. One day I’ll snap out of it and return to their dark, clammy world or self reference and lunacy. So strange.

    • sethdellinger Says:

      This is the main quandary of my own existence. I recognize the massive changes in myself, and others, but everything also seems so recent, like it IS still me, and it IS still you, I can’t figure out where the past ends and the present begins.

      • Duane Eugene Miller Says:

        Ha. Well, not to get all “eastern” on you, but there is only now. But “now” is pretty weird and not quite what it appears to be. At any rate, yeah, the lines get blurry with enough contemplation. It’s funny because it actually IS still me and IS still you but I am not “me” and you are not “you” … so… yeah:)

  3. It’s captivating.

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