Let me lie fallow beside the old patch of earth, weedless now and forgotten, ignored because it has no more to give. Let me rest upon its brittle, parched and clotted remains, no longer powdered in the hoofprints of pursuit. Even the For Sale signs have withered to dust. No longer on display for the bidding, hungered after or fought over. No longer launching wars and doomsday threats, high-powered monopolies or low-down dirty deals. No longer bait or reward for subterfuge, extortion and slaughter. Let me lie down in the unwanted place.
No, not the graveyard, where a thousand feet trample in their forced marches. Where the voices, strained and shrill, simper their obligatory regrets that a well has run dry, the mine played out. Not the hallowed ground where respects are paid in the inflated currency of blame.
Let me lie upon the unhallowed ground. The place too spoiled to set foot. The place upon which even the insects will not crawl. The place so worthless, seeds beg to be blown away by any uncaring gust. So impermeable, so barren, so drained of even the scent of opportunity, nothing will ever linger here again.
If industry is Man’s highest duty and indolence the worst of all sins, then this must be the Devil’s playground. But is it? Nothing to exploit or compete for here. Nothing valued by God or Man. Not even to make a small profit, let alone to sell one’s soul for. I would guess even Satan passed up the deal.
No, there are no fancy gates. No electrified fences. Not even broken-down barbed wire strung in twisted nets from post to leaning post. There is no threat of trespass. Nothing here worth protecting. No Keep Out signs. Just a poverty of riches squandered. This is my place of belonging.
Let me lie down in the unvisited and unmourned place. This legendary sanctuary from striving, the mythical realm of no supply and no demand. Once upon a time, so steeped in the sweat and clamor of conquest, only the cloying stench of uselessness could set it free. Now politely forsaken, this ugly unmapped place warrants no invasion, no development, no violation by being valued. No longer real estate. No longer real. I spread my body over this ungiving ground, this inviolate wasteland, at last blissfully depleted.
Let me lie in the untroubled peace of this used-up patch of earth. In the quiet vacancy of long-overdue abandonment, where even disposal is not necessary. Let me find refuge with the paved over, the hollowed out, the forever fallow. Here in the debris. Here in the ruins. Here in the splendor of the unwanted place.
Desperately seeking attention in a family of nine, Joan Bechtel learned the art of failing early. Her mother reassured her as a four-year-old, “We’re not laughing at you. We’re laughing with you.” So ridicule was good! This failure to fear failure spurred her on. From pink slip to pink slip, divorce to divorce. Sort of a delightfully macabre anima mundi. Yes, there were setbacks along the failure trail. Her satire in black and white and Esperanto, Ne Plu Pikniko, was called the “mother of all art films” by Joe Bob Briggs. But she never let success stop her. Years as a mother and psychotherapist taught Joan that childhood and horror were a dynamic duo. Not in the search for truth exactly, but digging into the muck beneath the true. Hell is her briar patch. Failure her gift.