Tracing
by Jason Nelson
A collection of rocks and lines border this boat I’ve found. Left in the salty
rain, its rudder is permanently bent to the West. I’ve lived in the Southeast
for two years, and the idea of directional averages has furthered my need for
clean water and larger than large hills. The rocks are soft and porous, volcanic
remnants. And as is the case for most things, they float until submerged.
Bordering the rocks that border boat are murky white lines drawn in chalk. With
every wave the chalk dissolves. And with every wake the fish spit powdery white
from their gills, outlining anything that floats. Why they do this is no
mystery. A mystery is a tale involving spies or jealous skies, all hell-bent on
taking liberties and dashing about with inquisitive smiles. Instead, it’s
obvious by their tenacious tracing that the fish are in love. And their amorous
intentions have less to do with long and straight Western roads than their
desire to suck oxygen from the rain.
Gnomes and Spaniels
Should all things be here? This is such a small space. There only seems to be
room for two or three people, a couple of folding chairs, and a mini fridge filled
with lunch meat. I just don’t see enough square footage for all things. Maybe
it’s the color of the walls and the low ceilings that make this space appear so
small. I once knew a philosopher who thought we, all creatures, lived in a room
created by alien scientists. They, he would say, created this place to study our
reactions, interactions, and contractual disputes. They didn’t do this for
control of the earth or to have tentacle sex with long-legged models. It was
our ceramic figurines, he figured, that they so greatly desired. Why they wanted
these intricately crafted miniatures of this world’s cutest creatures, he didn’t
know. Sure, this sounds like the insane theories of a jobless Ph.D. And sure,
I’ve considered calling the police many times. But now that I’m in this
deceivingly small room, and can see the ornately carved shelves in the corner
with labels for Christmas gnomes and Springer Spaniels, I’m less sure, far less
sure.