THE BARRINGTON RUNNERS
a night-time tale by helen mushroom
This is the way it used to be done. Out there, underneath the stars, the women would go down to the river when all the daytime predators were asleep – and wash their clothes. They weren’t much at first (the clothes, not the women), a fur here, some scraps of leaves woven together there, but they were our first clothes, and in the time before things could be repaired, the women came with intent to wash them and instead sometimes threw them into the river, going naked until some more suitable leaf or animal came along.
As time has gone by, we’ve expected a lot more from our clothes. At a time when tailors were plentiful, but expensive, and weavers did their painstaking work by hand, we expected our clothes to last us a lifetime. Children outgrowing clothes was less celebrated by our ancestors than by us: for us, 'tis a blessing to have a child that grows at all; for them, who knows why they kept on living. After all, the state of their clothes was horrible, much more so than in the ancient times.
Still, there was a time, (was it so long ago?) when there was nothing more human than smashing stinking rags on the rocks with a stick or a small stone, running naked screeching like banshees, back when delight or excitement was an impulse response to lurking danger, back when our instincts ruled us, keeping us one step ahead in a land that did not want or need us.
So when you see us, howling and running nude, throwing sticks at small mammals in an attempt to kill them for their precious fur, do not be alarmed. Think of it as a trip to the laundromat: we’re just socializing while we stick around somewhere washing our clothes before moving on to more inviting environs, same as you. Come tomorrow, we’re probably going to be your friend, your plumber, your lawyer, your pastor. You’ll never know which of us was there that night, which among all these seemingly well-integrated members of society. And maybe, just maybe, you'll realize that you’re among the very few that don’t participate, and the joke’s been on you for years.
I know you're reading this (you know who you are) and you should know: I mean it. Every word. I always told you never to trust anyone. Well, I'm telling you again. Don't trust anyone. Good night.
______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Laundromat'.
a night-time tale by helen mushroom
This is the way it used to be done. Out there, underneath the stars, the women would go down to the river when all the daytime predators were asleep – and wash their clothes. They weren’t much at first (the clothes, not the women), a fur here, some scraps of leaves woven together there, but they were our first clothes, and in the time before things could be repaired, the women came with intent to wash them and instead sometimes threw them into the river, going naked until some more suitable leaf or animal came along.
As time has gone by, we’ve expected a lot more from our clothes. At a time when tailors were plentiful, but expensive, and weavers did their painstaking work by hand, we expected our clothes to last us a lifetime. Children outgrowing clothes was less celebrated by our ancestors than by us: for us, 'tis a blessing to have a child that grows at all; for them, who knows why they kept on living. After all, the state of their clothes was horrible, much more so than in the ancient times.
Still, there was a time, (was it so long ago?) when there was nothing more human than smashing stinking rags on the rocks with a stick or a small stone, running naked screeching like banshees, back when delight or excitement was an impulse response to lurking danger, back when our instincts ruled us, keeping us one step ahead in a land that did not want or need us.
So when you see us, howling and running nude, throwing sticks at small mammals in an attempt to kill them for their precious fur, do not be alarmed. Think of it as a trip to the laundromat: we’re just socializing while we stick around somewhere washing our clothes before moving on to more inviting environs, same as you. Come tomorrow, we’re probably going to be your friend, your plumber, your lawyer, your pastor. You’ll never know which of us was there that night, which among all these seemingly well-integrated members of society. And maybe, just maybe, you'll realize that you’re among the very few that don’t participate, and the joke’s been on you for years.
I know you're reading this (you know who you are) and you should know: I mean it. Every word. I always told you never to trust anyone. Well, I'm telling you again. Don't trust anyone. Good night.
______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Laundromat'.
I love this.
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