26thSeptember
Sutton Station, Durham, NC

My wife has a haircut and I have time to kill. Seeking respite from my version of city life I head for the nearest patch of grass to read. I already know that this non-native ‘grass’ is a lousy excuse for the nature I crave, a highly manicured, chemical induced illusion. The lack of diversity is obvious, a monoculture in every sense, but what is not apparent is the real discomfort of this small patch of urban landscape. I have not sat here for more than 10 minutes before I give up, the pain is too great to bear. Each blade of grass is tiny spear burning into my flesh; it feels as though I am on a fire ant nest but I know no life, short of the one allowed to live, exists here. There is no humus, there are no ants, just painful, artificial turf.


