Save perhaps for those who cut it, and maybe the occasional cat, no one sets foot on this grass lawn. Ten years ago you could come here to leave the noise of lawnmowers, cars, and crowds behind. Now it’s a place defined by lawn-mowing and absence, and marked out by a fence, a place where–unless you can and want to own it–you are no longer allowed to be.
It is telling how the change came to pass. This piece of land was owned, or “owned,” by a few hobos occupying a makeshift hut and probably in the dark about what they were sitting on. They mostly left the land alone. But when given the chance, they sold the land for millions, to be razed and fenced off and covered over with concrete and grass turf and conceit. In all likelihood the hobos are dead by now–It takes a rotten soul to survive the kind of money they got.
Though we are furless and frail, we were meant, by an unspoken decree still running through our veins, to dwell in the calm flux of meadows and listen to the music of the wind. Ever more contracted and constrained, we instead go on to write our own decrees, fencing ourselves in and out at the mercy of the engine roar. This piece of land shows in miniature the agony of our collective condition. This is what we are: seldom cold or hungry, and almost never really alive.