No Trespassing, Private Lake

The bench isn’t the most inviting bench I’ve ever seen. Its wood is faded with little touches of lichen, and it has thin, wrought-iron sides that feature slight curves in the design. While the bench isn’t the fanciest, it’s placed before a scene of everyday beauty: a small lake about 100 feet across with an even smaller island at its center. Actually, “lake” might be a bit of a stretch. It’s more of a pond.

But the bench at the lake’s edge calls to me. It asks me pleasantly to have a seat and bear witness to the splendor that Earth can create. The lake’s surface is almost as smooth as a mirror short of the small ripples generated by the mallard ducks and Canada geese. Heads of small turtles peak through the water, and I’m captivated by their adorable presence. Branches from majestic live oaks and deep green magnolias hang just above the surface. Cardinals and blue jays sing the praises of this serene spot in the middle of a South Carolina neighborhood.

But there is one small thing that irks me: in the center of the island at the center of the lake is a sign that faces the bench directly. “NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE LAKE,” it says in all capital letters, of course. A shout to keep me and others like me — foreigners —at bay. We are not welcome here. Below the shouting sign is a smaller sign that also warns of alligators. I appreciate the gator warning. I do not appreciate being told that the water itself was off-limits.

I watch as the ducks and the geese dip their beaks into the lake-pond while gliding gently across the surface. The waterfowl pay no mind to the sign. They live their beautiful lives entering and exiting the lake as they please. Some even do so right before me. A small flock drifts over to the edge of the lake, and they step right onto the short grass. Some quickly swim back into the water while others stand and watch the lake from land. Turtles continue to poke their angular heads out from the water. They, too, ignore the sign. Thankfully, I see no gators, but I assume they don’t feel compelled by the sign to keep out.

The sign’s intent is clear: I don’t live in one of these nice houses, and so I can’t join my fellow more-than-humans in the water. The nearby houses are stately: stone, brick, and colorfully-sided. In the homes that have thin fences, there are backyards with fire pits and gleaming outdoor furniture. Clearly the people here are well-off.

The longer I sit on the bench, the more I feel like demonstrating that the sign is a recommendation and not a rule. Being me, I am bound by no rules except for those that govern the universe. I am an explosion of life that is constantly re-creating itself. The human concepts of property and borders are ideas that cannot hope to constrain the wilder world of beings like myself. Holding all of these fantastic ideas in my head, I stand up from the bench and walk towards the edge of the lake.

To my dismay, the ducks and the geese all flee into the water. I may be more-than-human, but they must still perceive me as a threat. I can see their surprise from further up the lake as I wade in. My first steps move through cold, shallow water that rises just above my ankles. As I walk, my feet kick up silt and sand from the bottom, and the water loses a little of its luster. A few more steps, and I’m halfway towards the island. The lake is now up to my shins. Suddenly, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I know I’m being watched. I remain in my spot taking in the last few moments of peace knowing that I’m present and a part of the beauty.

Minutes later, I spot a middle-aged man out of the corner of my eye. He’s walking quickly down the street that runs alongside the lake, and he’s filled with a disturbing amount of determination. His gait is more of a waddle likely from living too close to so many ducks and geese. He walks right up to the edge of the water. My back is to him as I’d prefer to continue soaking up the majesty before me.

“Get out! Can’t you read the sign?” he shouts at me, aggressively pointing a plump finger towards the sign. His skin is all pinks and reds, and he looks not dissimilar to a sunburnt pig.

“Of course I can,” I reply. After all, I’m standing right in front of it. I figured it was obvious. Since he seems intent on disturbing the serenity of me and the waterfowl, I choose to keep my response curt.

“You can’t be in there!” he yells back. I sigh and keep my back to him. “Get out, get out!” he continues. His Panama hat and loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt seem to shake with fury.

“No.” My reply is calm and measured.

“You need to leave,” he says. His tone shifts. It’s now more menacing.

“Says who?” Oh, I’m going to have some fun with this one.

“Leave, or I’ll call the police!”

“You don’t own this lake,” I tell him, doing my best to imitate a human toddler. I hope it pushes his buttons further.

He scoffs and waddles back to his house in a tantrum. I know he’ll be back. In the meantime, though, I try to appreciate the lack of interruption. The ducks and geese nearby appear unbothered, too. The short, stout, pig-man re-appears mere minutes later holding a piece of paper in one of his trembling pink hands. The other hand is on a hip holster that contains a small silver pistol.

“This deed has everything I need! My property runs fifty feet into the lake. Right where you’re standing. You’re trespassing!”

I sigh again. “You don’t own the lake,” I try to explain one more time. “All that piece of paper entitles you to is the idea of property as coded in the made-up spell you like to a call a law. If your property boundaries were as fixed as you think they are, my duck and geese friends here would obey them. But they don’t even know your lines exist.” I turn around and wink at him with a mischievous smile.

“Get out! This is your last warning!” He stuffs the deed into his shirt pocket and draws his gun. He aims it in my direction.

“Join me,” I say cheerily.

“God dammit, you can’t invite me into a lake I own!” Foaming spit flies from his mouth.

I wink again and point my finger at him like my hand is a gun itself, my thumb raised and index finger extended from my fist. He seems surprised by my defiance. “Bang,” I say.

There’s a crackle in the air, and his pistol suddenly transforms into a large bunch of grapes. The berries are entirely transparent and crystal clear, and the bunch is topped by flat wide leaves that are so dark they’re almost purple. His tight grip breaks open a few berries, and their clear juice runs down his fingers. He raises his fist closer to his face to inquisitively inspect what has just happened. “Grapes?” he confusedly asks the air around him. Since I’m the only human-ish figure nearby, I figure it’s my obligation to respond.

“Clearly. One of my favorite varieties, actually. Try one.”

He seems to remember the situation at hand, and he snaps back into his anger. “I don’t want no fuckin’ grapes! Get the hell out of the water!”

“What’s your plan without your pistol? Seems like I’ve got the upper hand now.” I point my fingers at him in the shape of a gun again.

The realization that I was responsible for the sudden shift of his gun into fruit suddenly dawns on him. Watching the fear slowly lurch its way across his portly face is a pleasure I will surely enjoy for months to come.

“No! Don’t do it! Don’t turn me into grapes!”

I laugh out loud. “No need to worry, that was never my plan,” I tell him. “But you really should try a grape. They’re delicious.”

“Demon,” he continues as his eyes narrow. “Devil!” I choose not to acknowledge his attempts at an insult with a response. These days, the people in this region are so quick to accuse me of being one or the other. “I don’t want any of your fruit, Satan!” His accusations are growing old. As he yells, he raises his hand to the sky shaking the cluster of grapes. As he does this, one of the berries catch the light of the sun just right. His eyes fix on the fruit, and the enchantment officially begins. Any fear or frustration drains from his face as he slowly lowers the bunch. He looks completely entranced as he plucks one of the plump berries and pops it into his mouth. As he chews, his eyes close. He has found pure ecstasy. I know the taste and texture well myself. The grape’s skin is impossibly thin, and the fruit is filled with watery essence of a flavor so effortlessly sweet it often brings me to tears.

The piggish man at the edge of the lake slowly opens his eyes. I’ll never tire of the look of shock so many people have once they truly see. It’s always a wonderful surprise to observe if the awe manifests as a smile or a breakdown. It looks like like he’s choosing the latter as he falls to his knees and sobs.

These particular grapes are like spheres of perfectly-clear water suspended in air. I designed them to be without color for a reason: they bring clarity to whoever tastes them. I gifted him the joy of seeing the world without the overlay of human ego and separation. Over the years, I’ve come to learn that this little spell is especially helpful for creatures who have severed themselves from the wonders of the world around them.

I spent many eons trying to help the Greeks remember who and what they were. So much wrong-headedness came from their tendency to intellectualize everything. At the time, I thought they were infamous for spending so much time in their minds. Little did I know what they might give birth to millennia later. But their obsession with rationality was also why so many of them loved me so much. They were smart enough to know that they still needed a release. My ecstatic escapes gave them a reprieve from the domination of their thoughts. That is why they sought me out.

It’s also why I was almost forgotten. I’m one of the wild ones. I represent risk and danger to systems of structure and power. Of course, these same systems of structure and power organized themselves in an unfolding effort to make my notions more palatable to the cultures that followed the Greeks. They stamped out the ecstasy but kept the wine as a blood sacrifice while they continued existing almost exclusively in their heads. It’s been a travesty. Eventually, entire societies began to think they were separate from the living world. That they were supposed to dominate it and make it submit to their will. Just like my portly friend here obsessed with imaginary lines that only apply to the world as he envisions it in his mind. It’s been a ruinous spell. He continues to sob with his face in the grass. His hands run through the green blades and into the water like he’s sensing it all for the first time. I just let him have his moment.

For the past few millennia, my hope has been to ensure that the vegetative explosion continues despite what some humans hope to accomplish. It’s rough going these days. And so I re-appear occasionally throughout time bearing gifts of grapes as clear as crystal to help break down those borders that keep rising up in the imaginal. They start as wooden fences and then quickly turn to stone. Soon, they’re whole castles that shift into cities that reach up to touch the sky gods.

I suppose it makes sense that most consider me a demon or a devil; I want to tame your desire to tame the wild itself. If you want to survive what’s staring you in the face, you need to remember who and what you are. So many like me tried to encode smarter ways of living into our stories, but you’ve pruned us to fit this new paradigm. It’s just like your relationship with the green kingdom: you’ve chosen to cast out anything that doesn’t reinforce your desire for “progress.” And you continue to create increasingly-effective poisons for both earth-loving stories and a wealth of plants in a vicious cycle of fear.

These stories, though. They’re really the key. But the ones you insist on lifting up are killing you.  I hear so much about warfare, domination, and destruction, and so little about remembering that you’re a part of the world around you. Sure, some in the so-called West might remember a few mythical tales about Egyptian gods like Isis and Osiris. Or maybe Nordic ones with Thor and Odin. More still know about Zeus from Ancient Greece, of course. That storm god motif is still running strong somehow. Me, though? When did you first hear of the name “Dionysos?” I guarantee I wasn’t featured in the myths you learned in school. Maybe there’s a reason, though. You probably don’t want a god of wine and ecstasy flirting around in the imaginations of your staid youth. Most have never heard of me at all, even if they think they know the Greek pantheon. Those that do know of me tend to assume my main priorities are just grapes and the theater. I do love those offices, though. But these roles are the things that I create that can be easily packaged and sold in rational cultures. Ritual madness and vegetative vibrancy are pretty challenging to sell to a society that wants to exist solely in its head while achieving staggering feats of techne. The systematic erasure that happened to me over the centuries might almost hurt if the goal weren’t so obvious.

Despite these challenges, though, I persist. I insist on trying to help the green kingdom thrive even if so many of you try to tame and limit it. The pink, piggish man currently sobbing at my feet sees the futility in this. He’s been at it for a while now, and I’m surprised that none of the neighbors have come to help him out. This fits though. Subdivisions aren’t exactly known for their caring demeanor and community.

The man’s wails are steep, like he’s just realized that everything he’s spent decades prioritizing has all been a lie. He looks up at me with a pleading look in his eyes. His face is a swollen, puffy mess. Snot runs everywhere. I’d say he looks almost pathetic, but I prefer this version of him to the one that waddled down the street with a look of righteous indignation. A few more sniffles escape his nose as he gets up to his feet, and he again looks at me for a brief moment. He turns and walks back to his house without a word. His waddle is gone, but now it looks as if he’s learning to walk again for the first time. With such an unsteady gait, his progress is achingly slow.

I leave the waters of the lake behind and make my way back to the wooden and metal bench at the shore’s edge. After having a seat, I marvel at the lovely combination of live oak branches and Spanish moss. My dear friend never returns.

I enter into god-time. A years’ worth of sunsets and sunrises pass from the bench. I see the wet spring shift to a sweltering summer. Next comes a cooler autumn. Only a few of the trees lose their foliage. The live oaks retain their tiny green leaves as if by magic, palmetto fronds still hang in the skies like a collection of fireworks, and the loblolly pines of course keep their lengthy needles. Winter is a bit grayer with heavy clouds, but it passes quickly. Spring arrives again, and the humans in the neighborhood return to the streets for walks as the chills have subsided.

From the bench, I’ve watched the piggish man’s house undergo a dramatic change over the year that has passed. What was once a fairly expansive lawn of flat grass that would’ve won Victorian prizes for its sheer plainness has turned into a teeming array of plants native to South Carolina’s Lowcountry. I find myself impressed as I walk back into the lake. Off to the side, I notice that the “no trespassing” sign has vanished. In its place, I see a creative take on my thyrsus. The metal pole is wrapped in vines and is now topped with a loblolly pinecone. At the pole’s base is a patch of fennel. He must’ve done his research.

The water is again cold, but I walk quickly towards the new, uninterrupted path that now extends from the the lake to the back door of his house. At the shore, I pass tall grasses on the sides of the path’s entrance. They shoot up from the ground as if singing praises to the sky in excitement for being allowed to actually mature and grow. Just beyond are small thickets of wax myrtle with narrow leaves. Thick bushes of Carolina jessamine and their delicate, trumpet-like yellow flowers hang over some of the myrtle. I see leaves of purple coneflower and milkweed biding their time before they bloom. There’s even an arched trellis just before his door covered in wide, muscadine grape leaves with serrated edges. Songbirds and insects are everywhere now that they have habitat.

While the plant life nearby is healthy and happy, the house itself has seen better days by suburban South Carolina standards. Wild vines now climb up the brick sides like they’re trying to devour the structure and bring it down to the ground for the Earth itself to finally eat. Some of the vines have even crawled through the broken windows on each side of the back door. What might have once been a sterile patio is now filled with terracotta pots, each containing a different kind of thriving plant. Dragonflies zip by as I knock on the wooden door.

There’s a shuffling inside. “Coming!” a jubilant voice yells from inside. He answers the door in what can only be described as a simple smock. It looks as if he made it himself by stitching a few burlap sacks together. He’s wearing no shoes or socks, and it’s clear his bare feet have spent much of the last few months wandering the land without protection. A simple necklace of rope adorns his neck, and it’s filled with charms of seashells and bits of pinecone.

“It’s… it’s you!” He seems excited to see me as he drops to his knees. “Thank you! My life has been transformed.”

“I see that,” I say. Peering over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the wreckage inside of his house. It’s clear that he’s given into ecstasy and revelry. Sadly, they can only get you so far in a society with so much material responsibility. It was so much easier when civilizations had deeper ties to the more-than-human.

He pauses and looks unsure for a moment. “Won’t… won’t you come in?” He gestures behind himself inviting me inside. “I’ve been so taken by the plants and wildlife outside that I haven’t had much desire to keep up the house.” The pink man shrugs and wears a bashful half-smile. From the back door, we step into his kitchen. Everything is coated in a thick, yellow-green dust. The broken windows must have let in the pollen from the live oaks. Cupboards are open with kitchenware strewn all over the marble countertops. Empty bottles of wine are everywhere, and potted plants take up whatever room they can in large swathes of sunlight on the floor.

“I’m trying to grow some grapes from seed,” he explains as he looks down at the grape seedlings.

“I never caught your name,” I say to him.

“The man you met is dead. At this point, there’s no reason sharing that name with you. I go by Midas now.” Clever, I think to myself. I remember King Midas well. After he tempted fate by wishing for his golden touch, he became one of Pan’s most devout followers and lived a simple life in the forest. There was that unfortunate issue with him having the ears of a donkey, though.   Unsightly. This new Midas — who so far only has human ears — looks anxiously at me. “And you are…?”

“I am Dionysos.”

“I knew it! It was the grapes. I never paid a lot of attention to myths, but after the experience, I went home and looked up ‘god of grapes,’ and there you were!”

“I see,” I say without amusement. “Your pathway out back is beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you! Unfortunately, my neighbors don’t like it. I’ve gotten notices from the town that it’s too wild and that I need to take it down. They don’t like the types of plants and want it to be more manicured. Something about it needing to look more like a garden and less like a wildlife refuge.” New Midas frowns. A large red fox runs past my leg and out the back door.

The crystal-clear grapes did the trick; he’s no longer subject to the false idea of separation. Midas is basking in the wonder of the more-than-human all around him. But he’s still embedded in an ecosystem of domination and extraction. I realize my mistake: he can’t survive this way on his own. He’s a lonely island forever shouting at by-passers who will never understand him. He needs a collective.

“Head for the mountains, Midas,” I say to him. “What you’ve created here is flourishing, but the writing’s on the wall. It won’t last. Not unless you get others to join you.”

“But… the plants! My grapes!”

“You’re like the last songbird singing its mating song at the end of time. There’s no one left here to hear your call.”

He looks broken-hearted, like his god has abandoned him. Maybe I did. Tears well up in his eyes and he falls to his knees in the middle of his dilapidated kitchen. “I don’t have any money. Where can I go looking like this?”

“I’m sure there are some crunchy granola types somewhere who would love to have you.” I pat him on the shoulder and walk out what remains of his backdoor. For a god of fertility and plant wildness, I am embracing the plant strategy: drop as many seeds as possible into the wild knowing that most won’t survive. I just need some to thrive in the right environment. Upper-middle-class suburbs might have been too much of a stretch.

I return to the bench and again enter god-time. The days, weeks, and months speed ahead. As they do, the house begins to crumble. First, the back half of the roof caves in. More windows shatter, and the back door finally falls from its hinges. In an instant, the structure is razed to the ground. I never see Midas leave. The plants, the songbirds, the insects — the habitat — all vanish. Something else begins to grow from the ground. It’s the bones of a new structure. A wooden framework of three stories stretches up toward the sky. Its holes fill in with plaster and concrete and becomes a small condo building. It grows glass and cheap siding. A small paved parking lot seals the ground where the myrtles and native grasses once were. A white picket fence bursts into existence to separate the lake from the building.

The cycle continues. Industry is an ecosystem in and of itself. I sigh and leave the bench behind when it, too, disappears.