suburban hunter-gatherer

Cut down trees into threes. The sharp whistle of the sabre falling under your might just as it hits the thick, hard branch with a loud thwack! gives you a nice feeling of satisfaction, of a job well done. So you do it again and again. The wood will give, soon enough. Your hand hurts and your palm turns blue-black with bruises from repeatedly hitting it against the black handle of the short, heavy, straight-edged knife -- gripped tightly as it is in your fist, the shockwaves come hard and fast as they reverberate through your torso. Every impact is an explosion of pain. Doesn't matter, shrug it off.

You feel sweat from every pore, bullets dripping down your forehead. Never mind, wipe it off. You feel an acute contusion in your spine that will sort itself out by tomorrow. Your lungs are on fire, and so are the triceps in your right arm. But there is a greater fire burning in your eyes. It is a good feeling. Don't stop. Don't think. What must be done, must be done. Focus on your task at hand. Cut down trees into threes. The trunk, you notice, is too wide. Too thick. You need a saw for this.

"Get the saw!"

Slice through the bark and it gets harder from there. The tree is old with layers of tough, impenetrable fibers running through its length. The saw, with its dull orange handle, is rusty and its teeth too small. The fingers of your right hand fit perfectly on the grooves and, brushing off the ache in your arm, you start to work on it. The serrated edge will not eat through the wood quickly; this will take some time. But that is not a problem, this is not a herculean task.

The last stroke does its job and you cannot resist shouting "Tim-berrrr!" when the tree finally crashes to the ground. Perfect. The heck with it, use your bare hands to snap the branches. Faster that way -- break them by grabbing one end and stamping on the middle for leverage. Push forward and they snap like twigs. Perfect.

Under the oppressive, sweltering sun you find a forgotten and primitive world of your own. You find your freedom. No quantum mechanics involved, no engineering mathematics in this, no experience in a technical field required. No complications in the human relations kind of thing. This is you doing pure, physical work. It is a good feeling. Just demolish a tree until there is no tree, leaving only tiny little fragments of wood. This you do until you can feel needle-like splinters under your skin. No worries, you can deal with that later.

You pick up the pieces and gather them in a bunch. Jump over the balustrade and carry them back to the house for later. For the fire. Right now, another task lies ahead of you. This one is covered with thorns but what must be done, must be done. You bring along your tools of trade to cut down the next tree.

In your eagerness, without looking, you swing yourself over the concrete fence and land in a nest of broken branches. Instantly a sharp, distinctive pain shoots up your leg. You don't have time to wonder what just happened when you realize... this one is covered with thorns. You see something resembling a long, broken matchstick with the head detached stuck in the ball of your right foot and you start tugging at it. You grit your teeth because you're hurting your foot even more and still it won't budge; it must be embedded deep inside.

You can almost hear a pop! sound when, with one swift pull, it comes off. A large thorn, two-inches long, caked in blood. Revenge Of The Trees. Fair enough. You'll be walking with an awkward gait for the next two days, but that doesn't concern you now. What must be done, must be done. When you're finished with it, you collect the detritus and carefully drop them into the now-large pile of deadwood.

Two full-grown trees in twenty minutes, all practically pulp now. Not bad, you tell yourself. Twenty minutes. A job well done, considering you had just finished two packs of cigarettes in two days. It shows you still have the stamina. You still have enough energy to balance yourself on the balustrade and, leaning against the jackfruit tree, cut off two ripe ones. Your heart is pumping battery acid to your veins quicker than usual, but that is a minor detail.

You let them light up the bonfire as you stand to one side and watch. Firewood to burn and simultaneously drive off the infestation of black beetles with their large, compacted heads from the coconut tree in the garden. The fire in front of you reflects the fire in your eyes, and when it is big enough you lift a branch with smoldering leaves and let the smoke drift to the upper reaches of the coconut tree. As the flames lick hungrily, the beetles fall like sizzling black rain.

Somehow this reminds you of the time when you were holding steadfast to the front legs of a lamb, waiting for it to be slaughtered. Impervious to the pitiful bleating of the quadruped mammal -- which was held prostate and immobile by six human arms -- the man with the blade sliced its neck in a few effective strokes, killing it almost immediately. You had watched with a grim expression on your face as the blood gushed out from the gaping hole and splattered all over his clothes; you were feeling sorry for the animal. The man only winced, and only once, and only from the stench, when the carcass was hung upside down to be skinned and the contents of its intestines fell out.

It is getting dark now that the sun is setting. You can see the flickering, dancing shadows of the people around you cast large and wide on the wall from the flames of the dying bonfire. But the fire in your eyes remains and, hopefully, will remain until your dying days. As you stoke the glowing embers, in the gathering dark, you now wish somehow the man with the blade had been you. No regrets. No fear. No remorse. It is a good feeling.

PLAYLIST

Man Machine -- Robbie Williams

Where Is My Mind? -- The Pixies

Stealing Society -- System Of A Down

O Green World -- Gorillaz

Twisted Logic -- Coldplay

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