The trees don’t give a fuck
Very, very tall trees stand quietly above the ferns.
None of them had said anything for centuries.
Except a whisper here and a creak there, leaning to and fro with the weather.
Seldom, one decides it’s time to fall and make a great big mess.
And not one tree gives a fuck about a falling neighbor either. Unless it’s in the path of destruction. Then it sort of just loosely participates. Acquiesces to the laws of physics. Becomes a log where mushrooms grow and new insects make a home. Nothing fancy. They’re pretty down-to-earth.
So am I, you know? I’m all like: I don’t need drugs and alcohol to have a good time, bro. I have a rich inner world.
You ever watch a rain forest western? Sometimes a strangler fig closes in, acting all sneaky, and drops the lasso. And the tree victim is stoic about his newfound fate. He finds acceptance.
Box trees don’t give a fuck.
I, on the other hand, seem to be in the unenviable clutches of a thought. The kind where I’m having a conversation. Without outside participation.
No, I wasn’t stoned when we ran into each other at the Dutch imports shop. Yes, I know how high my stroop wafels were piled at checkout. I have a very large family.
The trees, though. Powerful kings can swing their arms and ruin the world and the trees will give alarmingly few fucks.
I’m not bored by sobriety. My mind isn’t some labradoodle that needs to be walked twice a day.
I drop acid and sit underneath a giant redwood awhile. I hug him and fondle his lichen. He just stands there.
Okay, I can see the merits of this. In the middle of a head change, I’m not thinking about a head change.
Redwood trees don’t give a fuck.
That’s how they roll. But me, every morning I wake up, still breathing, immediately to fucks being given.
Did I remember pay that public urination ticket?
There goes one.
Will my aunt notice the cigarette in that photo isn’t a cigarette, and get up in my shit about it?
There goes another.
Is drinking and smoking weed every other day going to take away my precious future and fill my old wrinkled head with regret?
Let me tell you something, brain, you schmuck.
Reginald, the tree who hugged it out with me when I was tripping balls, he’s met millions of people. And millions of woodland creatures. He’s had 1,874 birthdays.
I could meet the love of my life, spend 64 glorious years in love, lose the love of my life, wither, die, and Reginald might meet our grandchildren, and when they die, Reginald will still be chillin’ right there.
Reginald doesn’t give a fuck.
That’s what I love about Reginald.
Annabelle Strand 2019
