a story

Friday the twelfth of May, 2006

It was a long high afternoon on the goat plain. Imported goats from the hills of the Camargue and the indiginous breeds. Grass itched at the collar of the herder. Soft fleece collar, a deep blue that was moistureguarded by some spray from Switzerland over the natural resistance of karakul suede. This was a million times better than being in a polluted, humanly overbuilt, seething morass of commerce. This was where he was actually seeing. This had no culture, in the gilded sense of a historical discipline. Not in the sense of a national company. Not in the sense of a system of trust and foundation. In the twisted strands of antique money.
This had at it's core, him. His soul. Himself, which he was coming to realise was not a nothing. He was capable of generating psychic sense. A fear had not been realised that he was of no substance. He was more than an acceptance that he looked inwards and dissolved under an inability to merit focus. What a rejoicing sentiment came over him, when he realised that he was vibrant, that he blossomed under scrutiny.
Fuck was he happy to be here. The day was washed in triumph, that he had got a plane ticket and train ticket and taxi and coffee at the side of the road before heading into the horizon that ate the highway. That he had put his money to work. That he hadn't touched money - that old finger-worn, pocket-secreted supply-chain that constituted his fellow citizens closest of relationships - in all of the time he had since had time to lose track of.
That here and now he had no cause to justify himself to anyone. Had no doubts, and no expectations, beyond that the pasture and the yield of the herd would be sufficient to see what would happen next. Barring attack. Intruders in the night. And pissing off the neighbours.
And neccessitating bureaucracy by invitation only.