In Search of the Giant Squid in All the Wrong Waters: Week 29
Friday, July 4, 2014, 9:27am
Today, I searched for the giant squid in Boneyard Creek which some of the locals, for the Independence Day weekend, have renamed—via cardboard sign decorated with flag stickers—Firecracker Creek. I have an opinion about these locals, but as I cast with my Stars ‘n’ Stripes lure baited with crumbs of the same brand of blood meal my mom used to grow cucumbers when I was a kid, I kept it to myself. They were bigger than me. Instead, I thought about slaughter, about the things that had to die so I could have creeping vine cucurbits on my romaine and my iceberg. I cast and the air felt nitrogen-rich, and full of vaporized bratwurst fat, capable of repelling even the most tenacious of rabbits. I caught no squid, but I did catch what appeared to be a bedbug, so far from any mattress. I took a step closer to the bank and, beneath my shoe, genocide again. Red glare. One of the locals said something about capital punishment and another local said something about molasses and anthills, and yet another said something about tar and cardinal feathers. I tried not to connect the dots. I tried not to associate patriotism with daddy-love, independence with eviction, Diaspora. The smoke bombs drew tentacles onto the air. I tried, but I am dependant on these other bodies for my immunity.