Deep inside the smallest imprint, search for fur. Or cells that can be traced back to a memory which can only be found in a footprint. Each day, I am amazed at what sticks to my toes…the summary of an entire day:
dirt from garden stepping or Prospect Park
filth from sneakers left behind in the cracks and silently haunting the wooden floorboards of my bedroom
calluses are my favorite: it reminds me I have walked enough
On Wednesday, in my section of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, garbage decorates the curbside in blue bags and black bags and white bags. Like magic, they are picked up, crushed into smaller bits and turned into ghosts of consumed particles.
What if we ran out of places to throw things out. Would we eat less? Consume half our daily needs?
Note: We are running out of room for bodies. Go set yourself on fire because available earth is less than it was for wooden boxes and gravestones. How peaceful is death when flames force all elements of cells away?
How to plan an exit?
My fear of heights keep me far away from fire escapes and I can’t help but think of the young man in my old building who fell many floors down after stumbling off the escape. My first impression of him was a body wrapped in hard plastic to keep his bones steady.
I am not permitted anywhere near Jewish cemeteries, unless as a visitor. My experimented skin with permanent hieroglyphics excludes me as a welcome resident. So maybe I’ll let my skin flake off like phyllo dough and decorate the paths I travel on through bike and feet.
How difficult is it to expire and still be green and earth conscious?