The Giants in the Land

by American Yak

One thing about that fateful year: more than two thirds of my life, I lived with that giant in the desert, never knowing his name, never knowing his crime, never knowing his goodness, never knowing the pleasure of his countenance, never knowing the gruesome horror of his face, his hands, his soul.  Never knowing his kindness.  Alone, behind me, all these years.
Put another way: I lived intimately alone with a giant in the desert, knowing everything about him, all this time.
This is a funny thing about giants.  We used to play with them in our neighborhood.  I mean, they weren’t strangers; quite the opposite.  They were, literally, everywhere.  This peculiar race, this peculiar species in pre-urban Utah, they were our friends and companions, we knew them throughout our lives.  The giants lived on the edges of the desert, among the forests and meadows, in the mountains, these large, natural people, the people of the rocks, trees, rivers, and earth.  These people carried huge burdens on their backs, and we knew them, and they knew us, and treated us kindly — with a few major exceptions, as I’ve already indicated — and all the world to them was an oasis, a playground, yet here they lived, played, and worked in the dry climate where I grew up.
It is a matter well established that few people come to Utah to learn about the giants.  Most people don’t even know about them.  And those of us who have lived here, sheltered for so long, don’t exactly share them with the outside world.  In fact, some of use are selfish and practiced at hiding them.  When strangers come to town we warn the giants.  ”Here _they_ come!”  And then a great rumbling noise, and thrashing, as the mother giants and father giants return to their nests.
As a child of the desert, I grew accustomed to this ascetic, though I have lived roughly half my life elsewhere.  Now I sit, typing in a worn-out house in Massachusetts, reflecting on what I have hidden, not only from the world, but from myself, what I’ve been running from; or, put another way, who has been hiding from me.  Now those yesteryears are past, and I intend to become acquanted with my invisible friend, the giant.  Perhaps I might even introduce the giants to you, to the world.  But let that unfold as a friend, the giant hiding beyond the unpartable river, would reveal himself.
Let that be later.

One thing about that fateful year: more than two thirds of my life, I lived with that giant in the desert, never knowing his name, never knowing his crime, never knowing his goodness, never knowing the pleasure of his countenance, never knowing the gruesome horror of his face, his hands, his soul.  Never knowing his kindness.  Alone, behind me, all these years.

Put another way: I lived intimately alone with a giant in the desert, knowing everything about him, all this time.

This is a funny thing about giants.  We used to play with them in our neighborhood.  I mean, they weren’t strangers; quite the opposite.  They were, literally, everywhere.  This peculiar race, this peculiar species in pre-urban Utah, they were our friends and companions, we knew them throughout our lives.  The giants lived on the edges of the desert, among the forests and meadows, in the mountains, these large, natural people, the people of the rocks, trees, rivers, and earth.  These people carried huge burdens on their backs, and we knew them, and they knew us, and treated us kindly — with a few major exceptions, as I’ve already indicated — and all the world to them was an oasis, a playground, yet here they lived, played, and worked in the dry climate where I grew up.

It is a matter well established that few people come to Utah to learn about the giants.  Most people don’t even know about them.  And those of us who have lived here, sheltered for so long, don’t exactly share them with the outside world.  In fact, some of use are selfish and practiced at hiding them.  When strangers come to town we warn the giants.  ”Here _they_ come!”  And then a great rumbling noise, and thrashing, as the mother giants and father giants return to their nests.

As a child of the desert, I grew accustomed to this ascetic, though I have lived roughly half my life elsewhere.  Now I sit, typing in a worn-out house in Massachusetts, reflecting on what I have hidden, not only from the world, but from myself, what I’ve been running from; or, put another way, who has been hiding from me.  Now those yesteryears are past, and I intend to become acquanted with my invisible friend, the giant.  Perhaps I might even introduce the giants to you, to the world.  But let that unfold as a friend, the giant hiding beyond the unpartable river, would reveal himself.

Let that be later.