If you want to slow down time, go into the forest. Keep your blinds open, so the void of darkness lulls you to sleep, and the breath of dawn asks you gently to leave your dreams in the ether. Reset your circadian clock.
There are no rules when you step into the woods. The distraction of the ever present internet is just out of reach, and the organized chaos you set your world to slips into oblivion as your phone vibrates off. It’s transformed into an overpriced paperweight. Your neighbors are the moose, the bears, the toads, and too many fucking mosquitoes.
You wish the weather was better so you could clean up the grapes at the vineyard,
and almost convince yourself you can muster through in the drizzle, then imagine all the damp weeds soaking your feet, ankles, and calves. It’s decided: those fuckers can wait two more days. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.
The river,
it has swollen,
and you stare.
How can you not?
The world has been expanded from the flickering of screens, to a stream of water slinking into a dark cavern.
You imagine this space is a portal into another dimension, and all one needs to do is traverse the steep embankment and step through. Maybe there are bodies–lost, cold, and leaking all the memories of the life they once lived into the water that consumes them. Perhaps there is a man. A man who doesn’t camp. Or eat. Or sleep. Or shit. He simply stands under this concrete slab, and waits. Most likely there are just spiders. Big juicy spiders with intricate patterns on their bodies, dangling in the corners, waiting for their next meal with stealth-like patience. One of nature’s many assassins.
In spite of this dark corner in the forest, you spend time strolling about, wondering why this dead end road is lousy with cars in the middle of a week during such dreary weather. You rehearse a conversation–that will never happen–with the campers at the two best spots. When will they vacate? It’s clear they’re here to watch the moon wax and wane before they pack up their expansive tapestries which shield them from the elements. They know what they have and are dug in like ticks, suckling on the nectar of mother nature.
Your campsite is fine.
The van is mostly level.
It’s secluded.
It’s free.
So you pick up a book a dear friend gifted you, a memoir that’s made its way from the life and mind of Lidia Yuknavitch, through edits, and tears, and doubt, and glee, and processing, and purchase, through the mail, and into your van.
You marvel at how some of your favorite authors have praised it. If Cheryl Strayed and Chuck Palahniuk loved this author’s words, you would too.
You read thirty pages of The Chronology of Water, and only stop to nap, stretch, and start again.
By the end of the night, more than a third of the novel has moved from its sleek pages and into you. With each sentence, you feel more seen than likely at any other point in your life. For once, you’re not the only one whose parents upended everything to move to fucking Gainesville, Florida. Or to have an older sibling leave you behind, while you waited out the clock to eighteen. To have a love affair with water.
There is more; and to find each overlap, you’ll need to peer into the memoir of Lidia, as well as know yourself. Both are highly recommended.
It’s the only novel you’ve wanted to pick up and experience again–immediately.
You cry, and laugh, and think, fuck I need to write more.
Luckily you’re tucked away in this canopy of green, where everything moves slower and with intention. So there’s time.
****
Fuck me, was that a bear?
I’d stepped out to take a piss, and there was a sound reverberating in the woods. A growl? It’s possible my generator had slipped enough and cast its gurgling into the woods, but it’s more likely not. Maybe it was the moose that almost barreled full force into my motorcycle this morning. Its body careening into the curve, catching my peripheral enough for me to think, is someone horseback riding? No, it’s just a giant fucking moose.
It was moving so quickly if I’d left just thirty second sooner, it would have slid into me, and likely totaled poor Solo. Not to mention me. As terrifying as this may seem, it would have been an awesome story for my children to tell of how their mother passed. Sideswiped by a moose on her motorcycle: she died happy.
Instead, it cut in front of me, galloping in that awkward way moose do, leaving hoof prints in the dirt road, as I followed at a healthy distance, pacing it at twenty-miles per hour for over a mile. Then it made a dramatic left turn into the woods, and left skid marks behind.
Maybe that growl was just the moose saying hi. It was a foreign enough noise to cause my adrenaline to surge and jolt my body into survival mode. I scampered back into the van and peaked into the woods. Then I blasted the first song my fingers slipped to, which was, of course, Puddle of Mudd-Psycho. Classic.
Maybe I’ll pee in a jar, or with my ass dangling out the window of the van the rest of the night. Spoilers, I peed outside, holding my very large knife–I know y’all needed that imagine in your mind.
****
Ignore the bear. Or the moose. Or the darkness under the bridge.
None of this matters after a day of sweat and heat, your body covered in broken leaves, pollen, and dirt. It aches with a satisfaction that only comes with manual labor.
The moon is perched in the arms of the canopy, illuminating the space, as the day is washed away, skin glistening with the passively heated water–water that is warmed by the same sun that beat against your skin that morning and evening.
This shower is taken with intention. It holds the memory of the sun, and moves with the light of the moon.
My Year In Motion 