untitled

I smelled the oil. For a moment I wondered how I would describe the smell of oil to someone who had never smelled it. Sometimes I'm not even sure whether I actually smell it, or if it is just a symbol for me, something that reminds me of something else. Old cars, or tractors, a little barn full of tools, all smelling of oil. A place where I grew up.

The old man sat, silent. The younger men spoke a lot, throwing words around as if we all agreed on what they meant. Maybe each one was the child of a word thrower, so they were just doing what they saw their old man do. Throwing words around. I was a word-catcher. I looked over at the old man. Then I looked at the wall for a while. I'm of the quiet tribes. I come from the farmers. They didn't run from living alone, working alone. Their soul is in me, finding solitude enjoyable. I need people - I just don't need them a lot, or at least as much as most.

Someone talks about hipsters. Every era has their bogeymen, the 'others'. So, the hipsters are the 'others' of our time. They were birthed by the culture, just like the rest of us. But we need the 'others'. Something primal, something internal longs for it. It feels natural to view them as 'others'. We are the makers of the 'others'. We make gods, and we make 'others'. There's 'us', and 'them'. Maybe we understand 'them' a bit, but normally we don't. I don't know how I chose it, but I'm part of the 'them'. But I don't know how to make a commodity of it, how to have a product that helps me somehow. I'm just lazy, too lazy to change into what I know would let me fit into the 'us'.

I walk down into the basement. It smells of years of working with animals. Part of the smell is shit-covered overalls after years and years of long days, all ending down here, taking off the clothes, showering. I want it to mean something. Some might say I'm trying to too smart for my own good. Just let it be farming, or whatever. It was farming, and it doesn't have to mean more than that. Not everything deserves its own art, its own poetry, its own songs. But I'm not sure I agree, or at least I don't disbelieve enough to say that it -doesn't- mean something. I know a girl at work. She's a conscientious worker, does a good job. A part of me wants to help her do more, if she wants. But I don't think she wants it. Life is enough. Family is enough. Her brother in her life is enough. The rest doesn't matter as much. But we get sick, and crave the rest, until we leave our lives, our family, our brothers, all to get some -thing-, that will make us feel better. It's all just oil under my fingernails.

I don't have to act like a survival box. I can be the grain of sand I am here to be. I don't have to explain everything, nor be explained by someone else.