Imagine a journey. A cinematic long shot, like the end of Sound of Music, when they are plodding through the Alps. Or in Lord of the Rings, trekking to Mordor. The camera starts close on feet, the rock and dirt and leather boots, but it doesn’t stay there long. It zooms out: backs and bent heads. Then further still, and there is mountain ridge and sky. And the airplane does that thing where it swoops around, the New Zealand landscape enough to make you wish you expanded past the edges of the screen, past the edges of the edge of where-ever. The music swells and it is so undeniably epic and you are on a quest, a journey and this isn’t about you its something bigger you are part of something grander, the streams and the clouds and saving Middle Earth. There is some much that is larger than you, you imagine so much beyond yourself that the whole thing is too romantic to worry about and the music screams over any of your doubts that this is stupid, egotistical, and oh what the hell are you even gonna eat tomorrow; none of that matters because you know your life is being captured by these cameras in fucking airplanes so it must all be important and your petty concerns are sort of delightful actually. Like “look at me scavenging for berries!” and “hey, I have a hole in my shoe just like in Fill in the Name of a Novel where Fill in the Name of the Protagonist walks his soles to nothingness. This is un-fucking-real.
But imagination can only stave-off hunger and muscle cramps and blisters and filth and reality for so long. The music in your head fades and you’re just a stupid tired child who wants to go home. You would crawl back there in an instant, if you could. If home was behind you. But the reason you left in the first place was the desperate hope (when you are optimistic) or delusion (if you are not) that home is somewhere you find out there in front of you, over that mountain, through the thorns and mosquitos and unholy gazes. And if you were someone who prayed, that’s what you’d pray for as you fall asleep in the dirt. (c) mbscarpa 2014
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March 2016
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