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Rob McCorquodale, 02 Dec '12

In Field.

Setting out.

Its seems a lot slower. The day is wasted on me at present. And so I’m sitting in my room looking out at the field across the road. I’m thinking of drifting off. I’m thinking that the dream is tangible. Too stay and think and not too act is what I have. Too go, too jump, to run, to accelerate beyond known limits is what I think I can do.The field across the road, the wood further beyond, its framed my world for so long. Its had me painted as ineffectual subject matter for too long. I need to smash the frame. I need to dash from view. I don’t want to allow them to paint me as their own any longer. I wish, sitting here now, to break the brush, to jolt the stroke. I wish to jump from this window, straight across the road and into the field. Sipping this water in my hand I feel I have brought about greater command of my movements.

Cricket.

Football is banned. Organised games that is. It simply cannot match up to the glories of cricket. Cricket is decent. Cricket relies on decency and sportsmanship, football no longer does. Football is truly the game of the people, however it too much replicates and magnifies the reality of the people. Cricket still lives by the staunch rules. It stands out as a light to be followed. The only forms of football permitted are forty fives and keepy-ups. Football is a beast gone lame. Too much bad comes from it in enclosed circles. This is the only rule that I enforced during my entire time in the field. I don’t really know how it happened but after a couple of weeks others began to join me. It may have been the smoke form the fire. They may have heard of a guy washing in the stream. I don’t know. I remember the first few. They came out of the growing evening from the road across towards me. As is my way I quickly quietened the fire and lay down to sleep. In the morning as the grass tickled my check I woke and enjoyed a decent breakfast surrounded by the new bodies who too themselves were gently woken by the scratch of grass.

Buried.

A dead body is strange to hold. It brings about a bubble of the un-normal. The change is so very sudden, everything becomes touched by it. I burnt my clothes, sat in the stream for hours. The grave I dug was pitiful, but what else could he have expected. To do it out here, so isolated there could be hardly any other choice. I thought later should I have carried it out. Should I have done more, but then again the idea of what had been done shortened everything. He couldn’t be angry. I did him a service. But I will never go back that way again.

Structure.

Its funny how you very soon begin to lose grasp of things. Time, after a while, becomes irrelevant. I suppose this abandonment was part of the reason I came to the field in the first place. Abandonment might be the wrong word, it might be more of a separating of the ways. I wanted to release myself, change from the order of things. It really is funny because I do enjoy order, structure is a decent handle to hold on to. Its just that you can find yourself sometimes bound by enforced structure. A structure seen as the norm, the accepted, the staple. Structure I think is any form of living, surely even non-structure is a form of structure, just an erratic one. I think my coming here was a chance at building my own structure. Of ending one breath and starting another.

The girl with the black hair.

One of the girls. She had long dark black hair. Very black indeed. She began to cook all of the meals. Indeed this period was very nice. We seemed quite contented me and them. Although it was different to have these newcomers around I soon found it a happy arrangement. The girl was the black hair seemed to me very young. There was a possibility I thought that she could be as young as sixteen or seventeen. She carried with her a very natural manner though. One that placed me at ease with her. She had a beautiful smile and watery eyes, that seemed to swallow experiences second after second. We took walks around the field together and sometimes even into the one opposite. By now the summer had stretched into three long weeks of heat. Our bodies raced each other to see who’s would be the first to turn brown. Days seemed to flow by sitting in the sun. it had never shone so well before we all agreed. Sometimes I would look back at the house. I would think about all that I was before. As my hands ran through the grass I would think myself brave for taking the plunge. For changing rather than continuing on.

Comments · 1

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  • Rob McCorquodale said...

    My first burrst. An extract from my In field novella.
    Inspired in part by Richard Brautigan's novel 'in watermelon sugar'.
    It's a story of growth, survival, discovery, disappointment.
    Please enjoy.

    • Posted 7 years ago