Grass

Green, yellow, brown, sharp, bent, straight, cold, dry, wet, calm, cool, relieving, frustrating, everywhere, nowhere; it's as much a part of the scenery and nature as anything else, and it's as varied and interchangeable as everything.

Have you ever seen a photo of grass, any photo, and thought, "Why is the grass always green?"

Maybe that's not a regular thought and maybe I've been overthinking a simple detail, but it's come and gone every so often, often when passing a basic click-and-shoot photograph that's trying to highlight a picture-frame to sell, or heck, looking up "grass" in google images.

Why is the grass always green?

It's not always green. In fact, it's very rare to see grass that's green through and through, without rough patches or dry patches, patches that are off-green and bent compared to areas that are lush, sweet and full.

It makes me think about media, and the people in charge of show-casing what's happening in and around what we can't see for ourselves. People in the city will always broadcast how perfect the hay-bales are for those wild, wild horses; look at the sky! It's Blue! Have you ever seen the sky so blue, in this cement and glass-sculpted city?

Then again, once you get to the country side, all the advertisements and billboards are just the same, only for those blocky jungles. "The business! The opportunity! The kinsmen ship and friends as far as the eye can see! Come to the city!"

I think what I'm trying to get at, is that these big corporations, these larger groups of money-collectors and makers of every sort, try so, so desperately to show us the green grass.

They try to put it on every photo, in every painting, in every radio hosting show, that this place where you are now, hey, we can't lie to you and say its perfect — but somewhere, somewhere far enough you can't see but close enough to get to if you just try; there's green grass there.

Green, soft, wet with just enough dew to sparkle but not enough to soak through your pants — it's there. You just have to reach high enough, and run far enough, to get there. It may not be here, but it's somewhere.

I think it's true — to a point. Yes, there is green grass somewhere, green and thick with itself, perfume of its freshness wafting in cool mornings and late evenings, untouched, and as perfect as it could be; but it won't be without someone else.

I think the trouble is that this paradise, this Green Grass, is something you have to make for yourself.

It's not going to be over the hills. If it were, it's not going to be just beyond the horizon and Just in itself, just because. There'll be hands in the soil and in the leaves, with weed whackers and sprinklers and sweating sun-burnt brows and aching backs. Where some things are allowed and other things aren't, where laws are or aren't upheld with force.

This paradise of green grass is going to have guidelines to keep it green, to keep it perfect. Maybe someday it'll be true, that there'll be green, lush grass. Only green grass, and the assembly line to keep it that way.