Everything came with the smell of brown sugar. There was a pompous beating of fists and drums in that dark room: the tenuous connections of youth made solid by circumstance, like boulders about to topple from a cliff, held on only by the dieing roots of a plant, or the awkward jitterbug of running, accidentally, into someone known in another life. Bartops were pounded to a nothing - a heap of sticks so soggy with the well that we sucked dry -by men in tight shirts, as we were quiet ... except our eyes ... That night marked the beginning of the great rabbit hunt: it was a different night each year, decided on because a song began, like a codeword, and we ran. I was surprised by the weight of the rabbit, it was a meaningful weight, one that should have given pause (can the heaviness of desire, the effort it takes to carry, really predict the future? Does struggle warn that it isn't worth it, or, rather, tell of all the significance of the reward?) We stood on the roof, in the wind, and watched the hunt all careen and leap around the towers and lights of the city in the distance, shimmering through the trees.
There is so much in love that is a Band-Aid. "Fuck you! 'I love you' just covers up the bleeding" a girl I briefly loved in Vermont told me once. There is so much we are able to convince ourselves of in the name of love - entire generations have been slaughtered for naught but a four-letter-word, and I've a family history. The truth is weight needs to be cared for by the always vigilant, the priest-like, almost. Weight needs to be cared for, like a cancer, or baby, slowly growing. It is so easy for significance to be stillborn, and even then, it is possible to carry that significance around dressed as a baby.
The rabbit hunt was glorious last year. Men and children ran over hills and underneath the brightest blue and golden lights to grasp at a fur-covered comfort. The rabbits, once caught, brightened the towns and played all along the sidewalk, nudged the children awake in the morning, and lovingly rubbed their heads as they tried to sleep at night. Mothers and fathers would tell stories of the rabbit hunt and the song that began it all for years to come without ever needing to exaggerate is golden and warm joy that brought warmth all through the winter until rabbits weren't needed anymore. The summer brought all manner of animals to play and rest, to comfort and love. Our captured rabbit turned to stone and was left, fading slowly, under rain and growing moss.
There is so much in love that is a Band-Aid. "Fuck you! 'I love you' just covers up the bleeding" a girl I briefly loved in Vermont told me once. There is so much we are able to convince ourselves of in the name of love - entire generations have been slaughtered for naught but a four-letter-word, and I've a family history. The truth is weight needs to be cared for by the always vigilant, the priest-like, almost. Weight needs to be cared for, like a cancer, or baby, slowly growing. It is so easy for significance to be stillborn, and even then, it is possible to carry that significance around dressed as a baby.
The rabbit hunt was glorious last year. Men and children ran over hills and underneath the brightest blue and golden lights to grasp at a fur-covered comfort. The rabbits, once caught, brightened the towns and played all along the sidewalk, nudged the children awake in the morning, and lovingly rubbed their heads as they tried to sleep at night. Mothers and fathers would tell stories of the rabbit hunt and the song that began it all for years to come without ever needing to exaggerate is golden and warm joy that brought warmth all through the winter until rabbits weren't needed anymore. The summer brought all manner of animals to play and rest, to comfort and love. Our captured rabbit turned to stone and was left, fading slowly, under rain and growing moss.