Rain, Catalyzed. Watcher Garden #8 (19.2.1)

Vast pool of information catalyzing into chains of molecules, the slime that pours itself from beakers. Found by a girl huddled in the corner of a street in the busy part of the town, where the suits and proper houses stand. Playing in a puddle with a stick or a finger, discovering the strands of water that hold themselves together with a stir.

The girl who’s met the spirits, who would know how to birth sciences, if only given the chance.

She stirs the water, its links finding themselves, information evaporated from the gardens and rained down upon the town.

Mechanisms not understood.

A misery to the one who sleeps in the street. Then a magic.

If she can understand the links, she can unlock the self she longs for beneath her skin.

Complications. Watcher Garden #7 (19.2.1)

Guesses perhaps, are the creation of a new path, for a new universe. Perhaps their guesses permeate our universe, soaking into constraints, shifting the tides.

Each then, walks amongst other universes, casting their own multiverses in their gazes, their speculations.

These complications, they do not stir the otter sleeping in a calm eddy of the quandary river running through the edge of the garden. The otter’s whiskers twitch with dreams, their paws curling about themselves in comfort.

The Loan Beach Walker. (13.7.9)

The night is still, silent as motion can be. A silver moon hangs low across the water, casting it’s light over the rippling waves. They crest at the beach and break over the dark sand. Rocks and seaweed are light against the black sand beach. A sea wall up the beach a way, now the end of the beach, stacks logs against it and things live there. Things besides the children of the day in their imaginations as they play.

Things that you’ve never seen, things you couldn’t see even if you tried.

The beach is full of people in the day, practically swarming with them. They’re alright. They live behind the sea wall only a road and a sidewalk away, where the beach used to end. They put the concrete down and built the wall. They hold the sea at bay yet wish they had more contact with the natural. With something they haven’t touched. Only when they wade in the water and the kelp brushes their legs do they think about this, and then it’s only I wish I could see more, or holy shit, what’s touching my leg?!

Tonight the water is alone, the people are gone. The colors fade between blue, blue green, silver, gray, and black. The picture is layered, water, waves, crashing surf, layers of beach, logs, sea wall, and a jagged reaching of buildings and people’s creations behind it. The fence and gate keeping the sea from the people and the people from the sea are locked. No one should be here.

The beach is alone, nothing shares with it the space beyond the fence at this time. The consequences of such an action are severe, and no one should tempt the harsh government of the time.

The tall figure of a man walks along the beach near the surf’s edge seems to fade into the shades of the beach. He walks here alone every night, watching the sea and the surf. He knows this beach, every contour. He knows what the people bring to it, and he knows what they take away. He watches as it changes, and he feels a calmness the sea brings out in him.

As he walks, occasionally he stoops, plucking a piece of plastic or bit of fabric from the sand. With each thing he picks up and stows away in his bag, the line of his jaw tightens. A spark of fire lights in his eyes, and burns his soul to see the rubbish left here. This is his place to be himself, alone, with his thoughts and himself. Everything he sees is a personal insult, an affront to the sea.

He’s been a boy when the wall was constructed, he had been watching the men always moving things around, building, creating, destroying. Yet through everything, even when the beach looked its worst, it had been his. More than anyone else, it was his.

And no matter what the people did to it, the sea seemed to like them. To care about them, help them. And the beach was his, friend. He would help its task, and he would keep it safe, as much as he could. He and the beach, the man who walked along the monochrome layers of sand and salt and waves, and the water that rose and fell to his step, they were a team.

This piece was originally written for the Seattle Acquarium’s Creativity Inspiring Conservation creative writing course, and was displayed during their 2013 student art reception.

The statement written for the program:

I feel like there’s a deep connection between people and the environment, I think it communicates with us, and I hope it will get easier to find people who are willing to try and listen.

Parasites and Monsters. (18.9.24)

The ship floats calmly amongst the waves on the high seas. Ship’s Captain’s words carry, his shouts ferocious. The ocean may be calm, but aboard the ship, they prepare for fighting. Frantically.

.

They came from the water so long ago. Now they sought to tame the oceans. They threaten all the world, parasitic and tasteless. Loud, abrasive, and crass. Seeking our destruction.

We must wipe them out. They hunt us. We’ll return the favor.

We only wish to live, but we will defend.

.

Only a birds’ eye view could see the monsters the ship prepared for.

Beneath the waters there was a seething mass. Old creatures, born of this earth millenia ago, yet far more traveled than earth alone.

These were no simple Kraken.

This mass, was beautiful as much as deadly.

Flesh tendrils drifted, twitched, and slid together. Deep shades of red, this was a pinnacle of evolution, change, and combination. Their massive bodies surrounded the entire area of the ship. Even racing, it could never escape the grasp of the writhing below it, if they thought to grab for the ship like kindling.

The bodies were reminiscent of octopus. Smarter still. Except, the textures. They were diverse. Jelly soft tendrils. Chitinous claws. Plated metal covering larger sections. It wasn’t technology, exactly. It was more innovation and design itself, built within biology.

If the fear that spread from the ship as a black cloud of evaporated sweat weren’t so great, it might be a moment to stand and marvel at the beast beneath the pretty blue waves. At the feathery tendrils feeling out the bottom of the ship, cataloging each barnacle they found.

The stillness of the morning is torn when the ship’s canon fires into the waves.

.

Parasite fired first.

.

It was over, ship there in the blink of an eye gone. Pulled down, ripped apart, and swallowed, into the red creature, no visible sign it had ever existed at all.

Peaceful morning, peaceful existence, resumed.

Potential Accumulated. (19.2.23)

Imagine, a city in gray monotone. Noir aesthetic, perhaps with the odd pop of color only occasionally. It’s raining there, striking an odd balance between warmth and chill. The motion of the city blending together into a stillness.

A few people in this city feel balanced within themselves. But most are lonely, brave enough to stay the same, yet lacking the strength that a sincerely offered ear lends. Without quite the bravery to be the first ear in the domino line of change; listless islands they.

Stories are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.

When the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written stories, becomes physical force unseen within.

Does it bring hope or sorrow?

Yes. Exactly.

The Woman Dipped In Ink. (19.2.12)

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.