Earthship

I don’t want to lose the memory.

Imagine the quietest place on earth. Imagine miles of endless, open air. Imagine the sound of absence. Imagine hearing the breeze when there is nothing for it to displace. Imagine feeling the sun as a wave, with nothing to block its descent. Imagine a silence so vast, you can watch the entire evolution of a mute thunderstorm, without ever leaving the screaming whiteout of full sun. Imagine the call of a single bird, cutting into the stillness with such force that it knocks you back. Imagine your footfalls as the loudest racket for miles, the shuffle and scrape of sole against stone, echoing off a far-distance cliff. Imagine the turn of a page reverberating beyond and beyond and beyond.

This is where I lived. In a house built into the earth, half-buried underground. Everything was poured and formed of concrete, a walkway transformed into stairs, transformed into chairs, worked around a pit for fire, tramped into planters, framing open earth. A chalky cave-deep scent followed me from outdoors to indoors and indoors to out. The wall of windows, south-facing, opened toward a courtyard, dug to the arc of the sun, framing a seasonal bowl of sky. In this courtyard I sat, wearing bare skin, fully exposed to the screaming heavens and read poetry. Words I’ve studied ten times before came at me in this place with a left hook, hitting me so hard in the deafening calm, I felt pounded into awareness. Aware of the tips of my fingers. Aware of the way the skin folds between my legs. Aware of my tongue, scraping the inside of my teeth.

Imagine distilling every single one of your victories and every single one of your sorrows into a single heartbeat. Imagine being able to hold this heartbeat in your hand. Imagine feeling the pulse and flutter. Imagine the sound it would make in the quietest place on earth.