Sunday, January 18, 2009

It’s Not Over.

(Lavafields, 2007)

This is a story of a runner named Michael, who never ran for anyone but himself. He lived alone, and though on certain nights he’d felt most lonely, he knew, that with others he loses something, he wasn’t himself, or at least he never let the opportunity arise. If the situation wasn’t bad, if he wasn’t depressed, it was good. That was that. And so the troubles he found were left behind as he ran, his thoughts would hold on but they would never last long, maybe a night, a few days at most, and then just like the many lives in his life, they too were gone.
He had been running his whole life, and to think of those faces, those lives that were a part of his, he could no longer see their faces, their voices were mute, and their eyes were the only thing that remained as he continued to run, passed the words of his many loves. He was a hard man to know. And he was always alone, working in his mind, plotting out his next escape from his history. Where he would go next, who will he pretend to be then, as he thought of his next destination. The rest of his understanding of his move will find itself and being the adaptive person he was, he would adjust, manipulate, and find comfort, even if it is for just a little while, as he see and hears these new faces and their voices echoing like familiar voices. Michael would look up at this new friend, Charles, and cock him a look of, doiknowyou?. Of course Charles would be confused with his new friend, Michael, but he would just accept this gesture as one of Michael’s many mysteries.
The collection of mysteries Michael had was in large sum as his new friends would look at him, sometimes attracted to this aspect of their new friend, and would wonder each time Michael took a pause in his many stories of the places he’s been to, and the many people he has met. He then would catch their eyes, looking not to his face, not even the very skin that covered it, but through his eyes, and inside his mask. He ticked, and ticked, eyeing the exits, looking for a clear path but thought it may be too early, he hasn’t fully adjusted yet. Michael’s stories were in many, and were truthful to his history of travel, and the diversity in culture, but were always missing something solid to them, as if they were air, they held no substance even though it existed as proof in front of them, this man, this almost stranger, in their homes, and they worried as the mystery of Michael became too much to bare. They worried about Michael, he was too charming, too witty, and too sharp, knowing each move before it happened. And just as their mouths were taking in the air they needed to ask one question, Michael had his hands in their hands, bidding them a fair evening, and they could only feel the air in-between their fingers as a man that was once in front of them disappeared like a dream. And over the years after each of his disappearances, the people Michael knew would one day, out of the blue, wonder where that person that was brief and puzzling in their lives, a part of their life they had almost forgotten, was, where was Michael now, who was he talking to, or was he gone, in transit to the next place, leaving behind an ever-growing mystery to those he meets. Michael hasn’t stop, and he keeps going, and going. He is too busy running to ask his feet why they move, why he must leave before he can feel completely comfortable. Before a place can be called home, he hasn’t stopped. For some people were born to run, and to run their entire lives, without stopping for too long, and without anyone else, for they are the lone coyotes that find themselves in our backyards, looking for some food and warmth as we approach them with homely comfort, and before the dawn they are gone again, leaving little hint of their existence along with a few bones. They leave with that air-like existence, as if a dream, it exists but you can’t see it anymore now that you know that it couldn't have been real.


O W L E Y E S said...

i really love this
and the images are something else

BrendanGeorge said...

Thank you Brooke,

I often wonder how often people actually read what I write underneath my images.

I am happy to have shared this with you.