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"Let's do this. I'm determined. What time is it?...."

tree • rope
fiction: david moscovich


Tree

I am barefoot. I am suspended from a tree and the
weight feels perfect. The rough bark presses
uncomfortably into the soles of my feet, and I enjoy
the resistance. The rope is wrapped around my waist
and my hands are pressed on my sides and I am enjoying
the resistance. My knees are slightly bent and thighs
are flexed and holding my body up I am perpendicular
to the earth. I am staring at the earth but my body is
what I feel the most. There is no thinking. There are
only thighs flexing and I am holding the weight of my
body above the ground. It strains my neck, I have to
hold my neck up. The weight presses on my waist and
it's constricting yet I am breathing deeply and freely.
There is a forcefield around me which won't allow me
to fall but still I can't allow myself to fall. I
won't fall. I am determined not to fall. I can't fall.
Maybe I should fall anyway. The bark is really
pressing up against my soles, but this feels like a
sun dance. I am breathing into the discomfort. I have
been doing this for about ten minutes now. I think
after twenty the discomfort will turn to pain and the
pain will turn into euphoria. If I last thirty I'm
sure I can go all day. What else do I have to do
today? Let's do this. I'm determined. What time is it?
Doesn't matter. I'm breathing into it. I need the
weight. I need the pressure. What's so good about
sitting in the fields all day and staring at the sun?

Rope

I am being pulled but I am also pulling. I am wrapped
around her tighter than her dress. She is resisting me
as I pull tighter. I can feel her resistance. I feel
her dawdling between enjoyment and pain, struggle and
surrender. I am wrapped around her waist. I like her
waist. I am her corset. I am her rock. I am holding
her back, preventing her from leaping off the tree. I
am tying her in, but I can feel how she wants the
weight. The tree is unmoving, but it's she that will
break before me. I want to see her break down. I want
to see how her muscles contract, trying to hold on.
She can't hold on all day. If she lets me go I'll be
useless, lying here at the bottom of this tree. Who
will pick me up and tie me to a bicycle? Who will wrap
me around another waist, another tree? This is what I
was made for, this is my purpose. Who knows how long I
might lie here, pine cones and sawdust drifting on top
of me. If I'm lucky, in twenty years some Thoreau
will come out of the cabin and wrap me around a
barrel. Anything would do. Just make sure to wrap me
around tight.

(illustration: lisa kinsley)


David Moscovich works at the Center for Dyslexistential Studies, an organic sheep farm and writer's colony outside Portland, Oregon. He is a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler and partakes in an all-carb diet, owing to a background in cultural anthropology.



© 2005 David Moscovich • Smokebox
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