Grass

Grass grows unevenly in high places. Often, while my mind wanders, I conjure up oceans of green. The shades, the steady flow of the land, the contour of the blades form slideshows along my thoughts. There are some specific landscapes that linger more than others. I remember lying on the beach a couple summers ago, before clouds of war and unrest, when only driftwood ventured to foreign lands.

Things are always more beautiful when reminiscing, I recall the sun having a white halo about it, reflecting the translucent glow of a summer moon. The ocean was wild that day, it wasn’t warm, but a gnarled wind tore at the glass sea. There were only a few spots of grass growing amongst the sand, far up from the tide’s stretch. The grass there was not green, but brownish yellow, like rust. The wind would snap at the reeds, bashing against the copper blades. I stared at this for a while, the movement and anger the wind forced onto the tranquil environment. A single force cannot move mountains; it cannot uplift the earth, nor pollute a mind. Rather, force is empowered through minute details scattered along its path. Reeds don’t crash and whirl into their grass cousins, but the force of wind breeds hate amongst family.

                I stood up from my mediation drunkenly stumbling, as one does after pristine awareness, to the patch of rust. The wind slashed at my back and stole my hat, but I suppose that is the extent of forces when unaided by others; magpies. Sitting on a fallen palm tree I gazed out at the ocean, with the patch of grass acting as an alter to the citadel azure. Standing, I walked reverently up to the copper grass like Communion. I wanted to walk on it, the colors were so rusted and gray they almost looked soft. The blades of grass were coarse and sharp.

 Walking barefoot allows for a unique perspective for it utilizes two senses. Both seeing and feeling one’s path is a beautiful thing. There is an innate a sense of unity with the environment when one allows feet to be connected to the earth. Even on concrete, the absence of a sole buffer reminds me of collective consciousness, everyone rooted to the same flower bed. I walked around Paris in bare feet, on broken wine bottles and garbage, Paris is a very dirty city, but my mind wasn’t absorbed by the grime, but rather, the heartbeat of the city. The subways pumped and shook the city’s paved skin like veins, the lights strobed as blinking eyes.

                Landscapes often remind me of citadels. Primrose Hill is equivalent to Notre Dame in every way. When sitting on the mount, stretching over London, the shining green grass seems to have a higher resolution in contrast to the muggy sky. When looking over the cranes and structures of the city, the grass leading up to the urban ziggurat brings life to the architecture. It is a dragon that sleeps and lies at the foot of Primrose Hill, with wings stretching as steeples and fangs glaring as radio towers. The grass provokes mysticism, a certain hex of peace amongst the smog of a city.