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the forth
adam blackrock
26 Dec 2001
There's a time of night when the woods' darkness is like velvet; it coils around you like smoke, or that insanity of song in church or at a soccer match. But this embrace is without the fanaticism and riot of the populous, instead it is the reverse; it is shadow's electrical environment at that time of night, without sound, without the color blurring before your eyes, and without the painful action. It is placid, it is balanced and it makes us think. No wonder it scares so many people.
I was dressed warmly when I entered the field, but the thick fog had my hair dripping and my face covered with beads of water. Each of the three trees that stood staggered in front of me rose up through to mist so I could not see even their first branches. I could never have reached my arms around any one of the field's guardians, for they were massive and ageless like gods. It wasn't raining, but it sounded like it was, for dew had collected on each of the guardian's leaves. Each leaf would gather the water over what seemed like hours and hours, and then it would let one perfect drip fall to the earth. In the forest's surrounding me there were countless branches with countless leaves, with even more droplets of water, and my ears heard each and every one.
For days before my stop in the ideal darkness, before I knelt beneath the massive trees that had lived so long in silence and grace, my soul was the remains of the encyclopedia pulled from the three-alarm fire. After, it was the stream that ran down from the mountains. But I know what I am, and I know what the world does to each and every one of us. So I set that encyclopedia back in the desk drawer and walk slowly to the garage to fetch the gasoline.
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