Around the holidays I always think about how I was raised and what if I was brought up somewhere else. I don’t dislike where I am from, geographically or maternally at least, but I always felt like some remnant or kept mistake that could have been moved anywhere. Much like a transplantable plant. Don’t get me wrong I grew fine and strong in Queens, NY much like an invasive weed but I often pine, pun intended, about my roots (pun slut) and think about how in my family tree (just leave the money on the dresser) I was a bastard of a squirrel who dealt with the unstable Oak I was raised in but longed to reside in a Linden. A tree with twisted bark and a strong canopy cover. A strong bastard of a tree that was self sufficient, had a good drip line, canopy cover and not only welcomed local habitat sex but promoted it by god.
So once again I am going to share my “Personal Dripline Theory” for social interaction that I subscribe to. The drip line of a tree refers to its canopy cover and how it sustains itself where it stands. A tree, unlike a human, can’t go get its own water and food so it has to be self sufficient. A good drip line helps the tree retain and shed the water that falls on it and catch the light while it keeps its roots cool and fed so as to keep it an absolute machine of a living thing. Thats what I like to be. A natural machine. Adding to the landscape while being left the fuck alone.
To maintain my “personal drip line theory” I have to keep people at a distance while realizing social interaction is needed. I don’t hate people, I just truly get off on being alone. I am also ultimately unreliable to only myself and the realization of this makes for a better ecology. As strong as I am, I am unstable and unfair to any unknown nutrient that comes my way. Some people look for love and think it exists but I approach it like Integrated Pest Management and go out of my way to not let it effect me. All it would ever do is supply a nutrient or mineral that will either ruin you, temporarily boost your system, not supply enough of itself to you, and ultimately even if reliable and available lose its potency or just flat out leave as a resource. A tree, even when dead, continues working though. Thats the zen of wood. A fallen tree in a forest provides for habitat and breaks down to be taken up by others. Thats what I want my art to be since my heart is dead, but working, while here. I’m also a writer and irish and a drinker and taurus and emotionally numb from my upbringing and compartmentalize my assets not so much for self preservation but for the betterment of the forest. Some people see the forest from the trees. I see the saws and try not to become furniture.
