‘Oaken and ancient, swollen with old rainwater and mold, scarred by time and graffiti, the most distinct of which is the word ‘LOVE’ carved so deep that the wood is bound to crack along those letters, ‘The Revelation Post’ swings freely in the outskirts of Minneapolis: a dangerous muse. Previously a fence, ‘The Revelation Post’ was swallowed and raised by a tree that roiled up and began to consume the power cords above it, prompting the county to kill the thing and move the lines three feet back. The tangled fence and tree and cord were left to hang from the abandoned post, their removal falling between the jurisdictions of a number of disinterred departments. It brained a woman the following week, whipped up in a storm wind, and cured her of nagging writer’s block which meant, of course, that she spread the word.
The local government’s attempts to destroy or even just secure ‘The Revelation Post’ have been met with opposition, both from citizenry and from ‘The Post’ itself which seems to have a defensive knack for granting debilitating revelations when in danger, sending interlopers home to really think about their choices and to make amends as best they can.’
Hector and I arrive at ‘The Revelation Post’ on a windy day. A man lies unconscious nearby, bleeding from a fresh head wound. He comes to when I shake him and stands, refuses help, and walks away deep in thought. ‘The Post’ swings erratically, gentle and vicious in turns. I look back at the man, now a dot on the horizon. Still standing, at least. But wobbling.
I put Hector in the kennel and pin a note to my jacket with some relevant medical details. Namely: don’t call an ambulance. I don’t have insurance and I certainly don’t have money. I’ve written instructions for feeding Hector on the back.
The onion pages indicate that there is a perfect spot for being granted revelations here. That someone has marked it with an ‘X’ based on a revelation of their own. I crawl about and pull dirt up until I find it: a wooden ‘X’ buried and spray painted with the message ‘For Inspiration.’
‘The Revelation Post’ whistles above my head.
It’s only when I have everything in order that I come to terms with the fact that I won’t be able to bring myself to stand on the ‘X.’ I’ve never been into self-harm, even when it’s good for me. I feed Hector a carrot through the bars of the kennel and move to re-bury the ‘X’ and I squat just a little too high. I feel the blow on the back of my head and the world blinks.
When I regain my senses, I have the distinct feeling that I should give this up before it kills me.
But that’s something I’ve known for a while.
-traveler
