Cut in the land.version 1

The cut in the land finds me here with the AC on burning gasoline to stay cool. Now I've written it, I cannot continue without switching off the ignition--rolling, we say 'rolling' down the windows even though there is retraction, a descent of the glass into the door of the truck, no doubt mini-rollers with some purchase, some grip, able to spin when I engage the buttons near my left hand but we rarely roll our truck or car windows down anymore though we say 'roll' and press the button, just as we say 'hang up the phone,' when we push a button or set it back in the receiver—-which is also in many cases a wireless transmitter—-so I switch all this off this taking away from me my effort my mechanical my physiological opportunities to engage with my machine the black truck and voila the windows now being open I hear the wind in casuarina a phrase I have come to love for what it really means...it's a dance of limbs and leaves of course but really it's this performance of the wind, this orchestration, pulsing like the shoreline with its tidal ebb and flow, that shooshing sound, and then calm and we are pulled along, inside this calm, pulled from our centers as our senses give way, surrender to its charm...the wind in the trees can do this. Hearing ceases to be a matter for the ears. The skin prickles with its listening. The eyes recover themselves, having been lost in thought since arriving at this junction. It's a cut in the land. I mean a cut deep and long enough for a train. But there are no tracks and rails only the hard scrabble, hard-packed back roads of Kohala.

A man's name, Pratt Road, intersecting the road down from the school which runs into Lisa's place——or so I'm told. Three gates mark this place. 12 foot gates forcing all and sundry to park in the shade in the junction for there is no going down Pratt Road. And Lisa's gate. That's open though you wouldn't go there unless you had business. But the windows open down in this intersection of cuts in the land, this blurring of the senses and this dance of the wind in the trees mighty like the ocean, like an empty shoreline, we can say, well, what?

What can we say? Walk away from the truck? Leave it here in the cut. Leave it switched off. Walk.