A Dustpile Collects

In a pile of rubble that I see within arm’s length of me, I see a cornucopia of artifacts that explain the nature of existence up here. The existence of the dust pile and the rubble it collects. There are several bottle caps and cigarette butts scattered among the rubble. From that I know this was a spot that ended up collecting what to world brought it.

As I sit here and write these words, I feel the wind blowing against my face, collecting me as it did the rubble beside me. The bottle caps are half-buried among broken sedimentary, definitely erosion from the gargoyle balcony statues along the edge of the roof. It has all collected in a galaxy of dirt, surrounded by more distant fragments of sand, stuck on the tarmac. I’m watching it now, the dirt pile, and I can see the wind move it. It responds to the wind with a wild dance. Each gust is another hour or activity at ground-zero, among the rocks of sand trying to find their way back to common ground.

And in the unchanging pattern the wind creates, I notice one grain moving against the wind, against all the forces pushing at it. A close look reveals an insect, a living entity struggling to move onwards. It’s back looked like a small and thin shard of crystal, reflecting the setting sun in my eye. It was half spider, half hermit crab.

I miss it now, that bug, for as I write these words, the wind has blown it to an unknown area in the dust pile. Later he will try again, try again to leave the rubble for in the end, the wind will always try to bring everything back full-circle. No stone is left unturned in the eternal struggle to move towards paradise.

July 6th, 2008

Afternoon at 1687 Commonwealth Avenue.