27 Years Later, The Grass Dances in Hudson

by @daverad

Today I am writing about the rst 27 years of my life. Reecting on events that formed who I am today. I am sitting on the wooden deck of a historic house in hudson facing a sloping grassy backyard. Before I can focus my thoughts, my imagination takes the helm and steers each nger to the keyboard - a window into a wandering mind.

As I type I see a boomerang spinning in the air around a windchime while a monkey plays the xylophone. His friend, the Ape, plays the cello. The y on my screen is making his way though snow like in the opening credits of a James Bond movie. Now I am in the snow storm on a couch on a snowmobile ying through the snow with violists on iceskates breathing re onto chimes behind us. A y that isnt there turns out to be a piece of fuzz from my scarf. Is this a waste of your time? The answer will take you on mental journey similar to the one I am on now. As I type, a page of my notebook oats up and the pen that rests on the page saves it. In that way, the power of the pen can save the world. If the world is the page on a notebook. As I type the words continue and my ngers now have a mind of their own, they now steer the ship. They are controlling this message, this story. They have taken my mind for it's own protection, in these words the ngers seek to protect the mind. As I type the sound of the keyboard plays itself, the story is now being told to me, the writer. My mind wanders, wishing it could explain this story to me in french, a foreign language I have always wanted to learn. The mind's mind pays no mind to this thought and the ngers rest. I take a deep breath of fresh air lling the cavity of my lungs. Seeing the outside from within an inated chest - seeing deep red with thick white bars of my ribs. Exale deep and you are blue ying out of the lungs by the heart and out of the throat past the teeth and dispersing into through the air. As I type the page of my notebook on the table turns. The pen has lost. Im deciding whether or not to write about the narrative of the scene where I am or to tell you about the lizard that I thought I saw but wasnt their like y that was, in actuality, fuzz from my scarf. A memory I created for you. A memory that you now own as much as I do even though the idea itself is no smaller - there is power in that.

Oh and I should mention, the y came by again. Walking through the snow sorrunding these words. Are you still questioning the value of this? You should. There is no settling the mind from monkey. Do you hear the sweet resonating chimes on the porch where I sit, they were in my mind and now they sit in yours echoing until you get to the unavoidable period that completes this thought and sentence. Now the the thought is over and you sit in silence. As I type I wish you could see the words I cross out as I progress. They are the words on this page that you will never see but they were there. They were a fork in the road on the page in my mind. That fork decided the future of the story, of this scene in my life. I will try to use less words to say things so you get the point faster and I can capture the seconds of this moment better. Or is it better that I type faster and dont delete so you get more. But what more are you really getting? I am typing with such emphasis and speed but you cant see that. You cant see that I feel like a rockstar dripping sweat from my headband on stage in front a million people shredding my electric guitar - that is how I am typing. Halloween bones hitting the keyboard in at a ghostly speed. Full stop. I would love to end every idea and paragraph like that. In indicator that my mind is back, back to dictating to the ngers. The mind returned from the deepths that is the below spine. A deep space, a galaxy in itself. Now my breath is lling the cavity of my body but its shorter this time - so I have less words to describe it. My mind goes to the top of my spine and into my neck. Now you learn that im sitting on a bench - legs extended and crossed at the ankles wearing heather red socks with my favorite pair of jeans. These jeans have spent over three years on my legs with rips and marks, each with a story in themself. I think of my neck because its sti from focus.

Im sitting on a cold bench and a gust of air sends chills along my lower back. I wonder if Jess is there by the door, I thought I heard a creek. She is wearing a annel shirt just like me. Another deep breath as I wonder the words and their worth again. Are these words worth your time or paper? As I type I remember that words are gold and remind myself to never forget that. When you have words to share with the generations to come always write them down. The future can grow from what has already been learned. Reecting on 27 years I have learned a lot but cant nd the words to begin. As I type I look up at the grass, which in the distance, looks frozen in time. And now after a short blink my eyes regain their moisture and it refocuses. The grass now looks like its dancing. The frozen grass was a memory that never happened. The grass has been dancing the entire time. There under the heat of the sun, raising and bouncing to deep house music. The grass is the worlds largest outdoor rave, crowds of green packed in together under the orange of the sun dancing as the sunowers spin captivating house music. The crowd is wild but subdued in a trance. And the reader smiles because the writer designed it so, and for this moment the entire world was happy, if the world was you reading and me writing. Fingers cold to the bone in the sun of Septemer. It's poor circulation they say, inconvenient I say. The door creeks and the page lifts up with the wind, the wind slows and page falls again. It feels like years ago when the pen lost the battle to the page. As I type sitting on the peeling white paint of this bench I keep warm with a red and black scarf and under my annel shirt I wear a brown tank top. As I type you wonder if it is worth it to keep reading. I laugh and wonder who, if not you, would care. As I type I realize that this is a conversation with the reader. I wonder if its the rst. Has all other writing been a lecture where this is a conversation. As I type I ask a question: will I always be able to predict what is on your mind and share whats on mind? Or if this is a rhetoric lecture with no room for conversation or thought from you. Your eyes can read but can not for themselves speak back to the page. Eyes can only speak when there is a mirror to translate their thoughts. As I type I realize my ngers cant move fast enough for this conversation to be in real time.

I wanna stop but I am worried I wont be able to start again. My brain is starting to wonder if it will be well recieved by yours. Shit. As I type I notice even in this selsh pursuit I am seeking approval. I remember that you should ask why you are doing it - to remember that you dont need approval from anyone but yourself. There is another another life lesson for you add that to your list for the rst 27 years of your life. As that thought wandered in my mind, I took a moment to reect. As I typed I saw the word monet and his art instead of the word moment. Then my mind typed moment and saw the name of the momemto and thought of typography. A thought within a though within a thought. So many levels deep. Which story are you following and which is your favorite? I wish I could ask you. Do you prefer the one im in or the one your reading. The ngers type and the mind thinks or so we hope. Fingers now like spiders on my keyboard. Yes, im scared too. Should I break. Pause. Or full stop. My spine adjusts and so does yours. From the deep space to mid way up the back - a ash from the galaxy to align the stars of the spine. An ant walks in story number two, or was it one. The story im in and share or in the realtime narative of story two. As I type I have dry mouth in story two, in real life. Now in a ash, back in this story and back again. My ngers are cold. Im distracted. This distraction has become the life of this story, a story about my life. I came to write about being 27 and the events that shaped the physical cavity of space that the particles of my body came together to create. No one stands in the door. No one is seeing my face scrunch like a sparrows feet with its heels at the ends of my eyes. An author said something like that once of a bride in story I read. In my story, story one, a large y lands on my notebook on the table in front of me. He is walking on the words in my notebook. Jumping from one text bubble to the next like from one pond to another in nature.

Cleaning his antenae-hands like ys compulsively do. They are a funny creature that way - always in garbage but compulsive about cleanliness. As I type a cold breeze comes again, the door creeks and my lower back hair stands up. In response my toes wiggle and the page ys up. So many things happed in that very moment. So many that in fact that moment is so far behind us before you read it. Before the page is typed, and by the time you read this, the moment will be so far gone. So far like the 27 year history that this entire story was meant to create. As I type the sun and the clouds move independently as the earth rotates. While I was typing the grass kept dancing. Now as I look up the grass freezes like someone who just noticed they were being stared at while dancing. As I type I worry I am getting too deep and I take a step back. My neck is tired of craning over my hands watching my mind play games with my hands while my legs in my jeans support my laptop. My red heather socks keep my toes warm so they dont need to wiggle to create heat. As I type I realize I need to breath more and deeper, it feels so good. Time has passed and I search for an excuse to pause. I reect and hope this is something that helps give insight to the brain. Perhaps in that way I can contribute to the planet. What does that tell you about me? What does that tell you about what I want you to think about me? The mind still controls this text but to what end. As I type the sun is stronger than ever. The door creeks and the doorway is still empty. No one is there. Who am I wating for and for what approval. The sunowers stop playing music and the concert has ended. Time freezes along with the grass - the keyboard is silent. By the time you read this the world will have blinked - and the grass have long since returned to dancing.