This is a series of proses by David Hammond.
Seclusion bench and walls, facing the front. “NO eating or drinking in the library.” Eight minutes to go. A piece is broken. It reveals the stupid innards. Fused splinters and a nail. Six minutes to go. Someone is helping to support the shelf with wads of gum. Free hardware. Four minutes to go. Rows and rows and rows and rows of lights above. The roof should lift off soon. Two minutes to go. No one is looking at the books. The walls and pillars are stone and rough. It feels like a medieval castle. Books too. Time to go. Don't worry, I'll be back.
Early. All done, half an hour to spare. I'm facing away now, but still secluded. The chair creaks when I move. The pen is squishy. I bought a new one, but I'm not using it yet. It's red. This one is black. Same brand, same style, different color. That's all. The gum is on the right side, but not on the left. The left must be stronger by itself? Or maybe it's just abandoned. It's hard to tell until it falls apart. Of course, all will be clear in retrospect. Is it really as strong as it appears? Is the gum supporting the right, or is it weighing it down? Does it make any difference at all? Half an hour to go.
Sitting here is a tiny crumpled piece of paper. It's the size of a pea. I restore it. It seems to be part of a spiral-ringed notebook page. The page was torn out, but this was left behind, crumpled into a pea-sized ball and tossed into the corner. I restore it, and it kind of resembles a man dancing. He is free.
The food is gone. No hotdogs will be sold today. The cafeteria is sealed, and the girl waits for the last one to leave. Seems I was late. My stomach doesn't growl. I had lunch. But just because I had a lunch, can one assume that I am full? It isn't true.
The buses are free. They move quickly. I'll see green again soon. I guess the routes on Tuesdays and Thursdays are different than other days, and today is a Tuesday. I'll be later. But the website didn't say the routes were different. No one said it. Yet they never go to my stop on these days. The street is right there, but they turn away and I watch my stop drift off to blue. We'll come around later and I'll come out on the other side of the street. That must be my stop, too.
Actually, I haven't left yet. I'm still at the seclusion bench. Fifteen minutes to go. My pen is still squishy. The dancing man is still here. He dances for me. Even though a breeze could blow him away, he doesn't hide. He stays and he dances. We are secluded, together. But soon I will have to leave him. There are ten minutes to go.
I'd better leave now. I don't want to be late.
It is an open bench, but it is chained to the ground. It faces the rails, but it will never see where they lead. I sit on the bench. I know where the rails lead, but I cannot tell the bench. It wouldn't understand.
Around the corner is a sculpture: a man with a missile through his chest. I know this. I have seen it. But all this bench can see is the missile. The bench can see the danger, but it cannot see the pain. The ground it is chained to won't let it. It must take it in faith that what it sees is true and is all.
Twenty minutes to go. Waiting on this open bench. People pass by and we watch them together. Two wild kittens play by the trees. Ants run along the bench. The sun shines through the tallest tree. This is life, says the bench. This is the world. This is all that matters. There may be danger, but not pain. There is no pain here. Not on this ground.
Fifteen minutes to go. The light posts stand tall, but they are dark. Who needs them when we already have the sun? Foolish. Behind them two bushes stand side-by-side. One faces me, but the other looks off to the side. I don't like that one. They are essentially the same bush. They look the same. They are the same size and shape. Yet it is the one that faces me that I find more attractive. It looks at me, and I know me, and I know me is safe.
Ten minutes to go. Leaves pile outside the rails. They are waiting. They will be broken down and turned to dirt. They know this, yet they do nothing. They accept it. It's their purpose, so why fight it? Leaves have no resistance, and so they are easy to break down. They die to serve the one who tossed them to the ground.
Five minutes to go. The sun is blinding now. Even the tallest tree isn't enough to block the sun. The bench is open to it, but the sun will go over its head and the bench will not see it. But that's okay. It is only what lies in front of the bench that matters. The sun will matter later. The bench remains open.
Time to go, around the corner, where I know there is something that matters. My chain is longer, after all. The leaves rustle.
Solid bench, a greasy pink. I'm still waiting. The cement walkway has cracks, but not in front of the bench. There are no cracks there.
Half an hour to go. The grass up ahead is freshly cut. Trees line up just beyond. They are all leaning in different directions, and it looks like a row of twisted thorns. The sun shines through these trees, and it shines brightly.
Twenty-five minutes to go. There is a hole in this line of trees. I see a building through this hole. “Welding/Manufacturing”. It's hard to see, but it's there. The sun tries to blind me, but I shield my eyes and I see it. I see the sign. I see the rail. If I wasn't looking at it from this solid bench, I might not be able to see it. There are other solid benches, but they can't see from this angle. The trees are in the way.
Twenty minutes to go. There is a lot of construction work to the right. It is very loud. Machines grind. Things are lifted, dug out, and piled onto each other. They are supposed to be building the “Learning Resource Center”, but they don't seem to be making much progress. A tractor drives in a small circle. There is a field beyond the construction site. It's hard to see because the tractors are in the way. The field also watches the construction. It probably can't see me. It probably can't see the bench. But it's easy to see the construction, no matter where you are.
Fifteen minutes to go. There is no game going on in the field, but even if there was, it would be hard to see. Maybe that's why there isn't a game. Maybe they're waiting for the construction to stop. But it doesn't seem like it will stop anytime soon. There is always more to build.
Ten minutes to go. There is a cage around the construction site. There are signs that say “WARNING, KEEP OUT”. Only the experts may take part in the construction. It isn't a job for us. The tractors are too much for us to handle. The holes are deep and we could fall in. We shouldn't worry about things like this.
Five minutes to go. A lamp post stands erect. It is dark, like the ones by the open bench. But this solid bench sits in the shadow of the thorn-like trees. Only the construction is illuminated. The sun will peek out of the trees soon, and then there will be light.