Monday, November 08, 2004

The Rotting Landscape
While wandering down the back alleys of an abandoned building, arched by the sticky cobwebbed fingers of trees and briars I was suddenly struck by a peculiar sense of arousal. The odor of rotting dirt and wood had an almost animal smell, and it was then that I realized that there was sex all around me. Vines and branches penetrating the chinks in the masonry, The decrepit walls of the abandoned abbey swooning almost imperceptibly, crumbling delightedly and protractedly over the course of decades.
The fore-play is epic in it's scope. It takes the age of a man before the first furtive kiss occurs, the gentle caress of a dead twig and the subtle outcropping of a broken gutter.
This is necrophilia.
A dead building getting fucked by the rampant and encroaching tide of the surrounding wilderness. Animals move too fast for this kind of thing, they are born and die before a second is over in the life of this torrid love affair.
Once the weeds have fully gotten a hold of the tainted underbelly of the structure, and the ghosts of outraged friars have fled in shame, a crack can freely develop in the outer wall. Chunks of debris slide away and crush any unwiting creatures who have happened to trespass into this secret communion. Warm rivulets of maggots carry the inconsequential carcasses away as the cracks widen and the inner load bearing supports start to moan.
Once invited the, tremulous fingers of the forest pry further digging deeper inside the structure, waves of ecstacy wash over the supports with a slow build up of anticipation and accelerated decay. Gnarled roots push through the foundation causing lewd ruptures to appear all along the corners, where two walls were joined. The ordered geometry of the rooms and hallways becomes sheared and torqued under the extreme pressure of this embrace.
Meanwhile crevices have formed in the surrounding hillside slowly inching apart at a matched speed with the turning of the seasons, alternating from cold to hot in waves. The surface becomes increasingly pockmarked as boulders of masonry push their way deeper, subtly shifting their own weight against that of the soil. The orgasm lasts a century. At the end, all that is left is a tangled mass of trees and masonry - the most sublime form of nostalgia.
When I finally awoke from my reverie I realized that my leg had somehow become entangled in the overgrowth. My clothes had been torn in strategic places as if I had tumbled through a field of dead branches. Ruined masonry lay in front of me like hundreds of spreading legs. The rocks were covered in what could have only been cum. In fact it was dripping from everything in my immediate field of vision. I realized, then, that I had for the first time experienced NOSTALGIA as a form of desire, detached from anything known, yet oddly familiar. It was some kind of sublime hypnotic awakening, surpassing anything I had ever felt before. It transcended flesh. It was a projection into the future of the most ancient past.

Adam Putnam. www.sevenseven.com/putnam/text/rotting-landscape.html


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