Alone In The Machine

A Blade Of Grass

I venture outside for the first time in days. It's warm and stuffy and i am walking the fields, bathing in the sun, bathing in the light, which for days has merely been an irritant. I go nocturnal for periods at a time, i sleep in the day and stay up till sunrise. This is the best way to avoid people-and to get anything done that requires solitude and introspection.

The people cannot seem to understand this. I am walking the fields alone and i get strange looks. I've been guilty of doing this myself, of treating anyone walking alone with suspicion. Then invariably i see them walk past and see that they are walking a dog. I feel a sigh of relief, then the thought occurs to me that I'm the weird one and maybe i should get a dog to put other peoples mind at ease. It is considered unnatural, strange, to walk alone in a field at a leisurely pace. To sit alone in a field, and when people walk by you are made to feel strange and almost guilty.

I am walking in what used to be a patch of mud only months ago. The old allotments and most of the trees were knocked down with plans on building some outdoor five a side football pitches on them. The new allotments have been built further down in the clearing. It surprises me how quickly nature reclaims itself.  Now there are purple flowers, yellow flowers, lupins, wild french marigolds, growing from the mud and the rubble.

I reach over to touch one and i notice a pissed up man behind the metal fence, pointing at me, putting his fist in the air in a triumphant gesture, saying "go on son!". I have no idea what this means, luckily i have my headphones in and can pretend i haven't heard him. He seems pleased with the one sided interaction, carries on a little while, then stumbles off alone along his way.

I have started to walk away too now, and in the undergrowth to the right, beside a pathway for dog walkers i notice a slug eating some dog shit. I think about putting it out of its misery, then think, who am i to judge? His meal of excrement might be my idea of a banquet. I'm sure he doesn't find the idea of it disgusting or repellent as i do. I am looking at it through my own biases.

Probably it has no ideas, no biases or preferences at all, or if it does, they are completely different to my own. It's a hot day and i have decided that it should live. I pour a few drops from my glass of water on to it so that it wont dry up in the sun. It is beautiful in its own way. It is silent and living, and noble in its lack of pretension. It doesn't need anyone to notice it, it is devoid of self consciousness and guilt. It just lives there in the field, existing solely on what is around it. In its own way it may be more noble and more happy than the whole of the human race.

My thoughts are turned toward the blades of grass. 'What is the consciousness of a blade of grass?' I ask myself, and it is almost like a zen koan. It silences me for a moment. Away from the world, away from the hustle and bustle and the insanity we have built for ourselves. It is there rising up against the gravity of the entire world, that single blade of grass for which there are no words to describe its experience. At moments like this the mundane and the common place become deeply mysterious. Everything feels right with the world and nature seems perfect and innocent in its indifference towards everything. But it is a moment, and the moment never lasts.