A Piece of Southern Goth

We used to play chess. We used to play chess, and he would try and let me win and I would try and let him win until the board went stale. He, thoughtful and careful, meditating over each piece. I, sharp and impulsive, cocky and quick. It would be hot and sticky outside. The sky blue and cloudless as we sat on the porch and watched the white paint flick off the rails. I would count how many weeds looked like flowers and dream about the future. We used to play. 

And then he died. Theoretically. But to me there was no difference except for the fact that I felt mortal for the first time. 

Convenience stores that glow amidst the midnight moon.  Lighting, any sort of lighting alters reality. Even the lighting departments in big box super centers seem different, out of place, not one with that of the white space full of over packed shelves. The rows of pendant lamps and sconces bleed a soft yellow light on either side of the guest. It makes you feel as though you are just a guest in this world. 

Estate sale of a hulking plantation. Chests of dolls and baskets of records. A shop that solely sells outdoor statues. Cherubs with black mold that run down their chubby cheeks like tears. Horse statues with heads lying in bird baths. Semblance.

Why do we buy things? Why do we identify with this statue or this record? That this is reflective of us, a piece of us for those to see. They are tangible, and hold us down to this world when we feel as though we could just fall into a crack and sleep for a thousand years. 

A snake is symbolic with sin and yet the snake did not sin, the snake only tempted the sinner. A deep, dark, dank swamp with unidentifiable noises but a feeling of unity, of acceptance. Like, when things get bad, you can sink into the damp ground amidst the ferns until your body decays and all that's left is your bones. 

Neon church with a neon bible, all aglow with his words like technicolor. A modern creation, a cinematic masterpiece. Solid directing with a slow, gravelly conviction. Those will burn in hell fire, he says, as the sun sets and burns over the scorched and barren, freshly tarred parking lot. The cross on the sign out front is switched on. Pink and orange neon, like a truck stop for the damned. Come shower off your sins with our guilt. As if talking ever solved a god damned thing. Nothing is ever said during a war because war isn't won with your head. 

A hospital at night with a pitch black parking lot except for ten feet in front of the sliding doors, where white light illuminates the mint green rails and inside orange light reflects off of an empty receptionist's desk. There is life in that building. But the small square windows are dark, and nobody moves outside. 

Things are eerie when empty. Museums 15 minutes before close. Bowling alleys when first opened. Rest stops in the a.m., dotted with a few trucks. Laundromats at night with only one patron in the back obscured by a magazine. An open window looking out onto a cul-de-sac on a dark night, one orange streetlamp illuminating nothing. These things are here to remind us. They are the personification of alone, and yet they bring on our worst fears, discovering that we, in fact, are not alone. 

Living is a constant struggle of being alone and being together. We are born, we are together, we are alone, we hope to be together again until we die alone and then, we pray that there is somewhere else where we can be together again.