Ultraboreal by Brian Grainger

We walked home, through spring valleys and rolling winter knolls,
through the hot sadness of summer and the electric death of autumn.
Under massive canopies of green and beside burnt stone streets, we
tread on, toward an ambiguous end with all the confidence of the
universe at our heels. We passed by dusty antique constructs of bark
and sap that loomed above our heads like ancient giants, long since
asleep or dead or petrified under the warm gaze of the sun. We heard
birds sing, felt fog pass, counted clouds until there were no more
clouds left, at which point we started counting stars. Beneath days of
bronze and nights of soft lavender we walked and slept. We ate of the
earth, plucking buxom red apples and other fruits from the wild
overgrown cornucopia that surrounded us. We drank of the earth,
savoring cold mountain streams that Pan himself might have distilled
into wine, eons ago. Yes, we were here, we were ourselves, and we were happy. Upon clearing the gargantuan wood, we discovered an equally massive clearing. Miles of flower covered flatlands lay submissively out before us, sleeping and still unaware of our steps. We walked home, hand in hand, ear to ear, babbling mouth to babbling mouth. Toward other forests we strode, without fear and without care. Shining endless forests of alien metal and geometries. They called out to us from across the great expanse in their angular chrome tongues. Onward we trod, ebbing slowly toward the silver Gods with so much unseen magnetism, like petals in a stream. The skies slowly changed from a bonnet blue to an alabaster white, and as we arrived in the Old Gods' summit, there was no wind either. It was as if the entire outdoors gave way to a gigantic laboratory where we were only microbes. The tall sentinels greeted us indifferently with glares of white light on reflective metal. Deeper we pushed into the abyssal maze of perfect angles and calculated dimensions, still aware of our purpose. After what seemed like years inside the huge profane complex, we found a small still pond, almost invisible among the mirrored walls and ceilings. We remembered the small dry node we kept from our time in the antediluvian forest, and placed it in the small body of water. Quickly the liquid began to bubble and fizz, as if we had enacted some chemical reaction. Sprawling organic growth shot out of the pool, taking hold in every corner and inflating itself a hundred fold. A bright reddish brown arm of roots and wooden muscle reached up from the floor to burst through the aluminum overhang we were crouched inside. Sunlight, pure and bright yellow, poured into the room, revealing otherwise invisible gridlike indentations along the walls of the interior. In a flood of green, the powerful tree burst with soft
leaves, hundreds of them. For the next half hour, everything slowed
down to a near silence as weight settled, spaces gave way to
expansion, until in one elongated sigh, the growth paused. We looked
at each other, smiled, just now realizing we were holding hands, and
began to climb up, up, up to our warm wooden hollow in the sky.

Tracklist

1.	Exmouth	75:13

2.	Goliath	76:08

Credits

released May 4, 2012

W/P by Brian Grainger. Photographs by Andre Gansebohm.

License