Mucking about near the old dynamite shack today. It’s January and the forest oozes out to sea, fibres of cedar and spruce and a fern and moss inebriated in January rain. Awash in it all are tens of thousands of bottles – once containing alcohol and medicine and maybe even water, who knows? They’re drunk, too. Scraps of porcelain or humbler crockery, and casings for headlights, oyster shells and a shoe beyond recognition.
All you beautiful flasks with your sympathetic curves! You, made from soda mixed with sand, are blown into this shape that becomes your personality, your whole life to serve a single purpose, be filled and emptied. Vessels to accompany a hand, commune with a cup, deliver a poison, a promise, or get tossed aside.
You’re like this rainwater carrying off this forest, you’re invisible.