Welcome to Take 2 of our Listener reaction. This week, a few of us are taking different pieces from the band Listener and writing what comes to mind. For Take 1 by Erika Morrison, click here. Today, Abby Barnhart's writing is inspired by Listener's "Wooden Heart." She does well with this piece. Really well. And after you have spent some time here, run over to her place and see just how good her other words are.
[vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/16335289 w=400&h=170]
Kara was a fairy child, half gypsy, made of signal smoke. I can’t remember her eyes, hair, or skin color, but the playground whispers, the stories of far away mysteries, those she painted on thick as the ink-mud we’d imagine with, deep into the darkening night, until there were only mother voices and mosquitoes left to guide us home. Her favorite story was about the wooden world. Here, she’d say, the trees is wood, and everything else is made all up of metal or skin. But there, her smile blooming, all’s turned backwards, upside, and down. Trees, she claimed, of flesh and blood. People of wood, some flowering. We only have what we remember. Kara’s whispered words return to me on their own well-wandered time. For ages, I search in vain for her trail, a taste of that sacred story. It’s twenty years later, the sleepless third of November, when delirium and anxiety surround, a perfect storm, to carry her to me, and I to her wooden world. It’s surprisingly serene – this nature of steel and bone. Colossal oaks, branching arms bent low, extended always for embrace. I fit just so in one hand hammock, two low-lying offshoots folded to size. I squint but see no horizon far-off, only endless plush pink sky. I see no sun, yet it seems to glow eternal, ever-setting in the warm dusk limbo of darkness delayed. I wake from fear that night may never come, but find it deep and sticking. A clammy dampness coats my skin, morning dew come in the midst of the blackness. The urge to stretch is so sudden strong it tickles, and I rise to crack the window. I creak. Loud enough to wake the dreaming, the shock shakes free a memory. On the welcome bit of breeze now passing, I hear Kara once again. These is seeds from the wooden world people. She digs deep in the pit of my fist. If you swallow ‘em down, they’ll grow tree stuff in you . . . her whisper cracks as it reaches its loudest point, and you’ll flower forever and always. We only have what we remember. And I do. I remember. I remember Kara’s pigtails dancing fast and free behind her as she raced me home, laughing louder for the falling feeling freedom always brings. I remember soon after, the stories fading with the light, finally stopping all together, squelched by cursed terms like “girls of a certain age.” Story turned swear word, thrown out in the same load as fancy and fable. And the spark of the fairy child all but disappeared, replaced by empty eyes of expectation. I remember the whisper’s end. I remember, too, the hope of good grown from the dirt, and the pain of a broken whole turned to pieces that don’t add up. I fall fast from the weight of all the remembering – wooden knees meet wooden floor and there I find her seeds. I splinter, pulling shards of past from my flesh to trade for those few magic beans. I plant rows of tree-people, a piece of myself in each plot. I wish them grown, water and tend and want only what the gypsy child promised. With roots entwined, we buoy each other, smoke signaling together, our stories building rings in the bark of shared memory.
People of wood, some flowering.