We wait in fields for dinner bells, when everything turns yellow and crickets clock in. I think it's the crickets job to create chirps, wearing their suits and ties and waiting for the day when they can retire to an island in the Bahamas. I read an article online about an island in the Bahamas being inhabited by swimming pigs. The crickets will have neighbors. Pigs and crickets, getting together for block parties. This is the world in which I want to live, if only I was invited.
Do people still ring bells to gather us in? Maybe, if there are porches. But we don't have porches anymore. Porches are gathering places. We have islands. We sink or swim to our own private sub-continental land and starve. There's hope, though. We might be an archipelago. We are separate, yet somehow we are a chain. Are you having a feast over there? May I join you? I'll bring the bacon, you provide the music.
We can turn ourselves into Coney Island. We can become connected by landfill. Our attraction will peak during turmoil, but soon suffer years of neglect. Bring in something minor and we'll be fine for a while. And then we close off like a cyclone. Despite the destruction, the hot dog eating contest will resume as usual. These islands we've designed will always have open shores for pigs and crickets.
Welcome home.
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