“It is not enough to cover the rock with leaves.” —Wallace Stevens
I recently told someone, that if I were to live after death, after all this time attempting humanness, I would want to come back as a rock.
As a child, I collected them. Even had a rock tumbler, which I never quite understood enough to use, but was meant to promote shine and polish to the grooves and curves.
I recently walked beneath the Manhattan Bridge toward the Brooklyn one and closer to the water. I stumbled over wet rocks and crushed shells, channeling the slowdown that is often forgotten in NYC. I threw these rocks into the water and listened to the rhythm of stones cutting into the language of waves. The view of circles forming. The shape of interruption.
These rocks felt more human than watching the “real” ones beside me, glowing behind their telephones and forgetting to notice the beautiful wet right beside them.
Sometimes, I walk around in a silent battle with myself and what I present. These rocks are simple and yet so deeply complex. They are hard and impenetrable, like me. Like me. When they are thrown, they bounce against other rocks or they splash. Rarely they dent. Their bruises are hidden. Like me. Like me.