CHAGA ONE: A TRUCK PASSES IN THE NIGHT

And its old, not the gauche and overwrought new one that you see around with nothing ever in it that the people own for show, for ego. I always think in the old days, or not even so old days, a man with a truck was a lumber jack man, a hauling man, someone looking for scraps iron, a soul that actually carried things, a lumpen proletariat, an almost romantic figure or sorts. The truck receives shards of light from the night lights, the electric bulbs, industrial grade, that wait in the sky affixed to cement poles.

 

Is this the past?

Or is this the future?

The next day will be garbage day and he is looking for tin, metal, such-like. I admire it. The whole process. The truck meanders through the streets slowly, almost pensively and reminds me of a racoon or other feral but deliberate thing. And what is the connection with the mushroom? It is this: I get the idea that he is harvesting metal. So it is the harvesting and what is being harvested. Something people would not notice. Or understand the value of. Or care too much about…

Something that hides just out of the way, that waits, that is a bit alone.

Something that can be unimportant to one but sought after by another.

Something. 

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