THE MOSSY BOG

It’s not a good idea to be stuck, but sometimes that is unavoidable. In the days where fluidity, guile and intensity were relied upon for survival, those in the know had a hideaway, be it temporary or permanent; a geographic location from which to regroup, try to shed from one’s follies and regrets, wipe the mud from one’s face, and convalesce or, if lucky, plot one’s next move with much needed reflection and newly gained experience. Pleasant little coves and bays throughout the oceanographic world were familiar places of such activity for certain individuals, known for their seafaring adventures and subsequent predilections. Other lesser renowned spots are present on each and every continent, no matter how painful the memories left behind by those who have traipsed upon such ground afore. You can almost see the hurt, the pain, the longing dripping from the gutters into the streets and alleyways, like slimy residue mixed with leaves, bugs, twigs and whatever else was being washed away by time. 

One of the spots preferred by a certain subset of pained personages was, of course, Tenerife. Famous for the veil of secrecy that cloaked the outskirts of the communal hub, new arrivals could immediately feel a sense of relief as they crossed the threshold into the fragrant boulevards at sunset. It was not so easy of course. After the initial relief that beset one after those first deep breaths, there was some real, painful days ahead, but the end result would be ultimately satisfying to all, except for those unfortunate ones too stricken to facilitate the healing airs and waters alleviating their pain.

Overall, the reputation of Tenerife as a place of refuge and solace was without question. It became known during the 1920’s when German orchestral musicians began arriving for some R and R, stressed out by the overwhelming demands placed upon them by composers and conductors alike, in addition to the insatiable expectations of the music loving public who seemed to fixate on their every error during a performance, whether real or imagined. Some of the finest practitioners and interpreters of the classical canon could be found along the boulevards, meadows and porticos of the town on any given day during that magical time, but nary a note of music was heard, for these poor souls were there to heal, to forget about their troubles and re-establish some sense of emotional equilibrium if possible. Their love and dedication to the classical arts had become an albatross around their necks and they needed a break.

Tenerife, with its soft breezes, tender sunshine and fragrant alleyways became a necessity for folks of that ilk, arriving there by dinghy, across the Mediterranean from Bavaria, Saxony, Rhineland and Westphalia. The journey involved a secret ghost train journey through the Alps and a pre-dawn discreet departure from Trieste. It was an arduous journey, but once one arrived, it took but a couple days for the weary travelers to realize that such sacrifices had been worth it all and would be most beneficial for them moving forward. The return trip was marked by gaily refreshed faces, smiling towards the sky and confidently hopeful as they headed west back home.

Somehow, this tradition continued throughout the 20^th Century, passed down to subsequent German musicians, who continued giving all that they had toward their craft, only to hit a wall and be in desperate need of some time to heal. The 60’s and 70’s pioneering prog-rockers spent most of the year in Tenerife, for they took liberties that their predecessors hadn’t. Being the Age of Aquarius and whatnot, a two-week respite had slowly morphed into a month-long retreat, and then into a season-long healing sojourn, and ultimately into a quasi-permanent state of healing and respite, begging the question, of course, that if the respite is of longer-time than the life recently-left, then it is no longer a respite but a permanent migration, and the purpose of the jaunt has lost it’s meaning to be sure. Those prog-rockers thought that their pyschedelics and lithium baths could be helpful, but, in fact, they went too far, of course, and it became difficult to escape that state of being away, so much so that there became here and here became there. In time, the powers of the place were reduced and the journey became more of an illusion to a former time rather than a defined journey with set expectations, outcomes, limits and boundaries. The Age of Aquarius wanted nothing to do with limits, but their importance was unquestionably re-established, and it was time to cleanse the palate and start again. 

When the 1980’s rolled around, Tenerife was desolate and unsure. The magic, resuscitating elements seemed to be in hiding, or perhaps, gone forever. The city bore the brunt of neglect and Cold War coldness, the residents closing their windows and drawing down the shades for weeks or months at a time. As it happens, the cycle of pain and pleasure renewed back upon itself and a new wave of German musicians, in need of healing from their artistic exhaustion, began to rediscover the trodden paths through the Alps of their forebears. The post-punk industrialists rose up and became manifest, polar opposites from their classical music brethren and sistren from previous eras, grinding asphalt into a microphone rather than spending years learning how to properly play a sonata on piano or violin. 

They grew up in the end of one era and on the cusp of a new day, taking the tools of art and subverting them, not to make something sound beautiful but to make something unlistenable. But, intentionally making noise is also artistic practice and even screaming and smashing can take its toll on a poor, young soul. So, after a few years of attempts to make drills and hammers seem even more sonically dangerous and relevant than they did previously, even these tough blokes in nose rings and leather jackets needed some rest and healing. On they went, over the Alps and to Trieste, where they tied some logs together, attached a motor and made their way across the Mediterranean to the Straights of Gibraltar.

Once arriving in those proven healing lands, which had laid barren and unused for almost 20 years, they re-established the practice pioneered by the cellists and oboists some time ago. They instinctively pursued the same practice, the same repose, the exact same agenda of secret repair. Their footsteps fell into the same imprints as those who had come before. They breathed the same healing breaths and felt the same restoration of their worried minds. Alas, so it is, young German musical artists. If the pain and pressure of practice and pioneering performance should get to be too painful and pernicious and start piercing at your inner peace, please don’t delay, promptly punch your ticket to peace and bliss at the secret hideaway of artistic renewal, acceptance and new beginnings. It’s only an ocean away.

It was very icy outside. The full moon rose over the eastern horizon and it was a very clear night. The sunlight reflected by the beautiful deep orange disc in the sky shone down and was diffused by the glassy ice to create an eerie glare that permeated throughout the forest. A light wind blew through the pines, creating a loud but gentle sound much like someone brushing their hair. Inside her den, below a rock crevice, on a little hillside, Mama Bear was licking her newborn cubs. There were three of them.

It was a scene that could have taken place in any century dating back millions of years. However, this being 2023, there were a few new elements to the birthing situation, unlikely to have been present until now. Unless, of course, that you believe that the arc of history is not a line but a circle, then perhaps this is just what it was like back during the Middle Pleistocene Period.

Generally speaking, mama bears don’t need no doulas or midwives. They don’t take birthing classes and their prenatal diet basically consists of as many acorns and rowan berries they can shove down their gullets before they go to bed in the Fall. And that’s usually enough. Their birthing place is a rock, or a tangle of tough tree roots. Papa Bear is nowhere to be found. They have no health insurance. No medications.

In addition, they are in mid hibernation, so they are basically giving birth in their sleep. It must seem like a dream, one of those half-awake dreams. One minute, she’s resting comfortably with a pulse of about eight beats per minute, and then suddenly she’s pushing these three creatures out of her womb and licking them clean, half asleep and groggy as hell. And it’s cold.

However, these days, in some select locations, thanks to the work of the Unbearable Private Equity Fund, bear dens have been upgraded to provide value added products and services to the modern black bear. Each den is surveilled with several webcams, along with an overhead video feed provided by a circling drone. Sensors note and record the actual temperature, the “feels like” temperature, humidity, acidity levels and barometric pressure. All of these once immutable natural elements can be modified to suit the optimum comfort level of each bear.

That’s not all. Indeed, the most valuable and prized addition to the modern black bear birthing event is the genetic engineering that takes place remotely, in real time, via the proprietary Unbearable Optimizer RNA Editor. Using the trademarked wildlife predictor database, each baby bear can be mitochondrially mutated to suit their actual surrounding habitat. Consisting of real time berry counts, edible fish inventory, river flow rate, invasive species quotients and authentic atmospheric analysis, genetic code is interrupted to produce both physical and emotional qualities that will best equip each nascent bear for success in their own particular sphere of influence.

The technology also provides some relief for Mama Bear as she tries to sleep through her hibernation as well as give birth to and nurse her cubs, all at the same time. A unique formula of synthetic enzymes and hormones is mixed onsite and airdropped into the mother’s cardiovascular system to provide both comfort and strength during these important few weeks of offspring development. Also, in a few beta testing situations, the Unbearable team is infusing happy memories into the baby cubs’ brainstems, that, slowly released over time, will help each individual bear survive the long, cold, lonely winters of the Northwoods.

Being a black bear was never easy, until now. Let’s face it, human population growth has not been kind to the bear species. With increasing habitat loss due to exponential growth of revoltingly huge and ugly McMansions, extreme heat and drought due to human-generated climate change, increased automobile traffic, hunting, poaching and removal of natural food sources, we have made being a bear a lot harder than it has to be. The Unbearable Private Equity Fund hopes to correct those adverse interventions to create a more placid and enjoyable lived experience for each one of our furry friends.  

The organization is seeking modest personal investments of one to three million dollars in order to gift the black bear population a portal into the modern world of reliability and comfort. Our genetic engineering team has developed real time solid-state co-dominance overdrive injectors that stimulate metastatic immune development in each embryo. Diploid intra-cellular replicators ensure optimum genetic flourishing that guarantees maximum species growth while limiting adverse human impact. Each and every nucleotide will be inscribed with the individual investor’s monogram and social media hashtags.

Returns on your investment will be substantial. Strong market media buys, integrated with social media platform saturation will ensure continued advertising revenues rising exponentially. Each bear cub will be available for digitally imprinted brand messaging, meaning that when we say branding, we really mean branding. Cross-spectrum marketing opportunities are to be initiated with fast food, entertainment, retail, commercial real estate and adult entertainment platforms.   

Let’s celebrate this year’s baby bear moon with a renewed commitment to the health of the North Country’s black bear population. They are our neighbors, our friends, our brothers and sisters, and it is time that we act with an increased level of investment and commitment to ensure that this great species survives and thrives for many centuries to come. New ones are being born as you read this now. Don’t let the opportunity pass you by. #BabyBlackBearBenevolence  

Great wheels of cheese sat rotting in the caves below the clifftop overlook, the humidity having been altered drastically by the atmospheric rivers flowing through the upper atmosphere. No one had been available to attend to this issue, all of the Salvadoran employees having been conscripted into the fire brigade working the western slope of the Sierra. So, the camembert sat melting, rotting beyond repair, or, perhaps, intensifying in flavor, depending on your tastes and, of course, your dairy tolerance.

Many of the residents of Crestview Drive had stayed behind to protect their homes, their belongings, their accumulated possessions and land holdings. A strange word, belongings, to describe the items and artifacts that one accumulates over the course of a lifetime. These things belong to me. They are my belongings, because I possess them. I am in possession of them, therefore they are mine, they are ours. They belong to my family. No matter which terms one chose to use, these people had a lot of stuff and they really wanted to keep it dry. 

Many of the homes on Crestview, overlooking the rough seas of the Pacific below, were equipped with elevators that went down the cliff face to their owners holdings below, including the cheese caves, wine cellars, bomb shelters and storage units. As the atmospheric river sent wave after wave of rain-laden clouds over the coastline and on into the inland empire, the wealthy home owners went down their elevators to their holdings below, trying to save what they could amidst the rising sea levels. In fact, if one were situated at a vantage point on a ship, perhaps, anchored about 500 feet from the shoreline, that would offer a panoramic view of the entire rocky escarpment, with a half dozen or so external glass elevators going up and down the cliff, carrying the men and women who occupied these homes along with their staffs, what was left of them anyway, back and forth from their manors above to their holdings below.

Once down at the base of the cliff, where the gates were located, the residents were in for quite a surprise, the water streaming in, the rain cascading down from the sky and from the runoffs at the top. Great waves of water, the likes of which none of them had ever seen before, especially since up until the day before yesterday they had been in an extreme drought. That’s what they thought, that’s what they were told, not to water their lawns more than once a week, not to go to the golf course any longer, not to take too long of a shower, and yet here they were a couple of days later, drowning in an overabundance of precipitation sucked up from the ocean by the powerful thunderclouds, and dumped down upon them with no deference whatsoever.

The sea turtles were clambering around at the gates to Bob’s cheese cave, trying to keep from getting their heads struck against the craggy rocks. Like all turtles, these sea turtles had shells of course, but one of these immense waves would send the turtle against the rock with such force that their soggy water-soaked shells would crack and crumble like wet plaster. So, the turtles tried to creep underneath the metal gates leading to the cheese cave to escape imminent violent events leading to their demise, and perhaps, if they were lucky, nibble on a bit of cheese, once they were safe and dry. 

These thoughts briefly entered Bob’s mind as he saw the turtles gathered at the entrance to his caves, as he unlocked the gate quickly and hurried within, the water already about thigh deep all the way back into the farthest reaches of the bunker he had built with the sale of his Tesla stock right before it tanked. Standing there, he had a brief vision of a small group of sea turtles sitting around the table in his cheese cave, toweling off, treating their bruised faces and taking stock of cracked shells, sharing oceanic tales of near death with each other as they nibbled on some soggy Camembert and prepared to ride the storm out within Bob’s cave system. That’s the image Bob had in his head when a giant wave came in through the opening at the base of the cliff where Bob stood within. He was not standing for much longer after that, as the wave knocked him instantly off of his feet and floated his unconscious body back through the cheese cave, past the wine cellar, the cigar humidor, the contemporary art collection, the bitcoin locker on into the last small cavern at the rear of the cave system, next to the folding table where the non-fungible token catalogue was kept. That’s where Bob’s body came to rest as the rain came down harder and harder.

Blaise went on a hike with some other folks he met through his note that he had nailed to the post at the center of town. He was in search of human companionship, but, also, perhaps even unknown to himself at that time, he was also in need of adulation, love, acceptance and belonging. But, at that time, he just wanted to meet people, at least that’s what he thought. So, he invited people for a walk. This being the early years of the town’s existence, it’s likely that most everyone there was looking for some kind of connection.

So, they met up at the place Blaise had suggested in his notice, at the announced time, and they exchanged pleasantries and set off for a hike that he had somewhat planned out beforehand. They went down the hill to the river valley and forged a trail along the west bank, beating back overhanging branches and tall weeds. The group remaining quiet, trepidatious and unsure, Blaise had started talking, even though he had not thought out this part all the way through. 

He just started talking about whatever crept into his mind, something he had never done before. But, as he went on, it came more comfortably to him. He said things that he deeply believed in, he talked about his observations as they were on the hike, and he also made up stuff that somehow came out of his mouth before he had time to consider what it meant. The group was about eight or nine people, not too large of a group. The two women were dressed in skirts and blouses, the men in trousers and work shirts, except for a couple that were dressed in overalls. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood and open to the world.

As the hike along the river progressed, Blaise became more aware and more attuned to the need, or, the desire that his fellow townspeople had for some kind of deeper meaning or purpose to their lives. Everyone had seemingly been thrown together in this little frontier town, coming from this way and that, trying to forge ahead and find a future for themselves. All of the newness and uncertainty had, perhaps, exposed a need for something else, a kind of glue that would anchor everyone in a more social, emotional and spiritual commonality. Instinctively, this need merged with Blaise’s unmet need for love and adulation, and he started talking about higher powers and the reason that they were all here on this hike together.

They were there not because they saw the notice nailed to the post in town and wanted something fun to do. No no no. It was much deeper than that. There was a more profound reason, Blaise explained to his fellow travelers. He told them about the history of the young nation they inhabited, and invited them to open up about how they felt perhaps a bit lost and unanchored, due to the lack of roots, the absence of stability and grounding in their lives. The only constant had been survival; bringing in enough food, not getting killed by enemies, both human and animal, and trying to keep a roof over their heads, literally, so that they wouldn’t freeze to death. The meeting of these basic needs had worn them raw, and Blaise somehow, though unpremeditated, saw a way to sooth them with his words of comfort and assurance.

As the hike progressed, and the sun rose higher in the sky, he started talking about things that had never entered his mind previously. He spoke about God messaging him, speaking to him about his purpose as a shepherd and leader, about what things each of them needed to do in order to make this new reality possible. This new reality would fill their longing for purpose, stability, contentment and belonging, although Blaise did not put his oration in exactly those terms. This was the effect that it had on his fellow hikers. By the time they went back up the slope and crested the river valley, each and every one of them was changed and, in some way, convinced, somehow, that what Blaise had talked to them about was, completely and undeniably, their way forward in this world, and that Blaise himself was the leader who would take them there and provide this comfort and safety for them and their families.

Soon after, the other hikers asked to meet with Blaise and discuss further what it was that he was mentioning to them about the divine trust he had been given to lead them to comfort, purpose and prosperity, Because, yes, there was that, too. Prosperity. Blaise had, again unplanned, started talking about economic well-being as part of his vision for himself and his companions, as pre-ordained by the higher power. He perhaps had sensed that he needed to seal the deal with not just emotional and spiritual comfort, but well-being as well, meaning not wanting for anything and, in fact, living in abundance. That had appealed to the folks quite nicely. All except for one gentleman by the name of Radley.

Of all the folks on the hike that day, all but one had followed up and asked to meet again with Blaise and talk about their beliefs in what he had told them and how their desire to follow his words had been made manifest and confirmed. This one young man, however, Radley, the one who had been lagging behind the rest of the group, always trailing at the back, in his shoddy gray overalls and constant pipe smoking, he had not been among those attendees at the follow up meeting.  And Blaise had noticed this fact immediately, and though he cared not at the time, the fact that one chose not to follow up, began gnawing at his consciousness with such increasing uneasiness, that soon he was beside himself with contempt and ill-will toward this fellow townsman. 

Blaise soon began supposing, since Radley had not joined the rest of the group, that he was not just uninterested, but directly opposed to him and thus planned on bringing him down. Blaise had, previous to the hike, no consciously articulated ideas about converting people to himself or his cause. Heck, he was not even aware of having a cause to which he should convert people at all. It had all sort of just happened. But now that it had, the fact that Radley was somehow opposed to this idea became intolerable to Blaise. He needed to act, or everything that was just now germinating among his companions, his followers, yes, his followers, this new vision that showed great promise for giving him purpose and adulation and grandeur in this world, would be at risk. He needed to act.

Blaise laid waiting for Radley early one morning and caught him going out to fetch some wood to build a morning fire. He laid waiting among the weeds and then sprung up with such ferocity that it surprised even himself. He grabbed Radley’s head and forced it rapidly down to the ground where a sharp rock lay. He died instantly. Blaise, after a few deep breaths and sighs of distress, soon regained his composure and was contentedly accepting of his evil deeds. He convinced himself that was the right thing to do. He believed that it was a divine act and pre-ordained by his Lord and savior. Thus, he was at peace and calmly proceeded to set up some roots and rocks in place to make it seem like Radley had tripped and fell of his own accord.

He left the scene surreptitiously, and went home to take his slumber, sleeping soundly for a few hours. He awoke refreshed and went gaily to join his flock for a meeting regarding next steps. 

‘Twas in a seaboard town, the week between Christmas and New Years, when the fabric of caring, courtesy and wellbeing, woven ever so slowly, in fits and starts, by the biological and social forces of the community within their shared origins and histories, both material and metaphysical, began to fray and be stripped by the wind which was blowing in from the sea, caused partially by an atmospheric river bomb cyclone once in a generation weather event. The signs of a coming turn for the worse had been there for quite some time, ignored or avoided by most of the populace. Generally, folks had come to not take importance any longer in the foretelling of the future, not thinking too much about what lay ahead and what kinds of flora would be sprouting from the seeds brought in by the leeward winds over many, many years. Suddenly, there it was, like a pileup on a freeway in a snow storm. One minute you are cruising along normally, cautious yet confident, and then before you can react, the wreckage looms right in the foreground as you yourself plow right in and add to it, as does the fellow behind you.  

The milk had gone sour and the cheese was moldy, yet no one seemed to know why or could manage any ideas about what to do about it. Despite the massive precipitation, the air seemed dry and stale. The vegetables all wilted and water would no longer boil over a flame. The upholstery, fine yesterday, was soiled and torn. The animals roamed free and many of the stores were full of squirrels, wild turkeys and deer coming in through the automatic doors. No one could tell if it was day or night, as the sky was a perpetual dark gray, with a faint orange glow filling the atmosphere that came and went as it pleased. As it was the “holiday season”, all the festivities and planned parties took on a new tone of confusion and even animosity. Children were crying, as were many adults. Muttering and mumbling to oneself, or to no one in particular, had replaced the act of conversation, an interaction so foundational to personal and social relations, which itself had been becoming more and more questionably effective for quite some time.  

A negating of roles and responsibilities was spreading like monkeypox. People refused, at first, to go to the holiday parties of their family or their employer. “I’d rather open a vein and bleed out than sit here and read this teleprompter one more goddamn day!” said the news anchor over the air on one of the town’s most popular television channels. “Me too! Me too!” the people screamed, and this viewpoint, this choice of opting out, in the strongest most possible terms, was seemingly accepted by one and all as the week went on.

Did you mail the Christmas cards? “I’d rather open a vein and bleed out right here!”

Did you feed the cat? “I’d rather open a vein!”

Are you going to Todd’s New Years party?  “I’d rather open a vein!”

Are you coming right home after work? “I’d rather open a vein!”

On and on it went and no one could do anything about it, so they all joined in one by one, shouting and screaming when they weren’t mumbling and muttering to themselves. The rain came down in buckets, and as the air got a bit chillier and it turned into freezing rain, sleet as some people remember calling it back in olden times. The wind picked up and the falling water crystals formed into hard spiky little balls and soon it was hailing, seemingly for hours.

Bring the car into the garage. “I’d rather open a vein!”

Shovel the sidewalk before it gets too deep. “I’d rather open a vein!”

Take these books back to the library. “I’d rather open a vein!”

Get a fucking haircut, would you please? “I’d rather open a vein and bleed out right here!”

The hail turned to snow and then back to hail and then back to rain and sleet and the rivers overflowed, vehicles were abandoned and the wind blew the leaves and thinner branches into giant whirling airborne tumbleweeds, only much more dangerous, lethal they were, as big masses of decayed plant life zoomed through town like comets. People slouched low and hunkered indoors until they couldn’t take it anymore and went stumbling through the streets, drenched by the downpours, felled at times by the streaming leaf and twig comets, watched by the animals who laid down in the window sills of the buildings, staring out at the people and the goings-on.

Just when a feeling of respite began to be felt, when a sense of decompression filled the air and gave people some hope, it would start back up again, the sense of doom constricting and tightening like a tourniquet around the arteries. Finally, the madness entered a new stage, and some people found whatever sharp object was nearby and began to, in actuality, open their veins, slicing and dicing their way up and down their arms and legs, on their necks and torsos. Most folks were too sloppy and unprepared for such a task to do any real harm to themselves. Their minds had been worn down and dulled like the blades of the ice scrapers and grilling tools that they grabbed and crisscrossed across their bodies with reckless abandon. Many of the self-flagellators ended up appearing as if they’d been bitten and scratched by a playfully aggressive cat, but nothing worse than that.

It was all too much, too much. Nothing was important anymore, or everything was too important. Nobody could tell which, if there was a difference between the two to be noticed at all. A man walked solemnly through the town, in a long, elegant raincoat and a beautiful crimson umbrella. Or perhaps it was a woman? No one observing this person was too sure and if the animal onlookers could detect a gender, or even cared at all to notice such a thing, they were not letting on. As this person, this being, walked down the road, some even claim to have seen the body floating in the air, being conducted along as if on an invisible conveyor belt or perhaps suspended by wires hung down from the sky, a calming effect emanated from the wake of the interloper, wafting out like the wake of a rowboat on a placid lake. The air lightened a bit and the hail grew smaller in size. The chilliness went out of the air and the wild turkeys and such began exiting the commercial buildings downtown. A silence fell upon the land.

Things did not go back to normal, not at all. They had been irrevocably changed. How so? For better or for worse? No one could decide for sure. Things were just different that’s all, and it took quite a bit of time for people to adjust to this new reality. There was relief and even hope in the air, but most people still carried around quite a bit of pain inside of them. It was emotional and spiritual pain, a loss, and for some it was even manifested physically, a near-constant tightening of the abdomen or an aching in the chest that never went away. That’s just how people had to live from that point forward, and they did. They adjusted and they kept on.        

From the spindly branch, the squirrel fell into the river. Usually so deft and dexterous, once in a while, things go wrong and a misplaced paw leads to a cold, unwanted submergence. But not to worry, squirrels can paddle with those tiny paws and perhaps their obscenely bushy tail can serve as a rudder of sorts. Once surfaced, the squirrel begins to paddle toward shore, to safety, and supposedly back to family and to the nest. It stares ahead and perhaps sees the land blurry on the horizon and swims toward it, patiently not seeming to panic. It is a nice, mild day after all. There is but one issue that I would have wished to bring to the squirrel’s attention, and that is that it should have considered perhaps turning around before swimming off, because now it was heading toward the opposite shore from where it fell. And the river being wide enough at this point to perhaps negate any future chance of recrossing, this error will perhaps lead to a future life of exclusion from the past life it has known and presumably very much enjoyed. Foot by foot, it carries itself to safety but farther away from home. Why can’t you just turn around and see, it’s right there behind you, very close by. The unwilling and unwitting self-exile continues as the distance from home furthers on in time and distance.

Perhaps I exaggerate and am positing an unlikely scenario, for the squirrel very well might have laid on the rocks and dried out for a bit; and then sniffing around, realized what had just transpired and, after resting up for a bit more time, recrossed the river back home to mom and dad, grandma and grandad, cousin Suzie, his/her mate. But, by this time, I had turned back and paddled on, alone, upon my own quixotic journey of exclusion. The river is wide but not exceptionally. It is deep but not quite so much. It has a strong current but not that strong to prevent a knowledgeable paddler from going back upstream. Looking around, you try to get your bearings, remember things that might help guide you, weigh your options and try to make sense of the situation. But your mind can play tricks on you as you try to determine which path to take. It’s sometimes hard to be aware of when to turn around and courageously start paddling back or to just let the current, or your own inertia, carry you farther away from your comfortable dray, but closer to something else, God knows what.

Robin is as robin does, takes a gander 

about and follows instincts,  digs in the dirt 

for worms, finds a mate and they build a nest

together. You get the twigs and I’ll bind them 

together with my spit. You sure this is a good tree?

Have some chicks and feed them, deliver

worms the best you can. If some miss out, then

that’s ok, there’s only so much time

in a day and if you’re fat brother is eating

them all, dear one, I can’t help you. I can’t.

Nudge them out of the nest and fly 

they will, if well fed and able to take 

the risk, survive and find more worms,

build a bridge to the next rotation.

Repair the nest, find more worms, keep on.

Moose is as moose does, eats and eats

grows and grows, until the snow melts 

and the ground thaws. One morning, dig a trench 

and pee into it all day long. Roll around and cover

yourself as you get testy, brave and strong.

Pick a fight and show you’re cruel, saucy and

wild, feverish, as you’re meant to be.

If you win, then good on you, moosish done well

kid. Find a babe and get it on, then take it slow and

Find some time to rest, guide the young.

If you got beat in the mashing, gnarled and

torn you are, bloody and ashamed, go back

and find some solace in the warm sun, be a

true moose and go to your lonely spot, repair

the hurt and forsake thee of undone tasks for now.

Human is as human does, unmoored and 

afraid, roots lost in the messy replanting. See

how you unfold now, make it up as you see fit.

Envision strength, though your skin is quite

thin, papier maché and glue, comes apart quick.

Love and be loved your only goal, though you 

might find a dearth of butter in your pan. The heat 

of the day melds you, unable to breathe, you lift and 

lift hard, it’s not enough. You got stuck, they say, yet 

the kneading was naught, broken and undone.

Take a seat for the show, you do, and settle in only

to find your ticket has been soiled and torn, illegible, 

thus not valid. If only you’d had it laminated, it was 

not foreseen. The show is unfolding now but you’re being

ushered out to find the exit and disappear into the cold.    

Some cultures place emphasis on certain numbers as a way to explain the universe, and also as a way to try and game the system for one’s own personal benefit. For some folks, either currently or in times gone by, the number 2 might have some significance. For others, it could be 3, 4, 5 and so forth. It’s usually those singular prime numbers of course, but perhaps there is a culture out there that really goes gaga over the number 47 as a way to explain the unknown in a quantitative manner.

Two is an easy one to land on, for it represents duality, the basic understanding of all ideas, forces, conditions and elements of life having a corresponding oppositional value. That’s what we all thought anyway. It might have been true at some point, if anything can be said to be true at all.

Lately, it seems that relationships have been a little topsy-turvy in our neck of the woods. Pieces that used to easily fit together seemed to have a little modification to their size and wouldn’t quite match up so neatly, which led to a lot of frustration all up and down the streets and avenues and, in fact, throughout the valley and all the way up to the craggy rocks sitting on top of the ridges that formed a natural border to our particular landscape:

Physically- through its geography and geology;

Spiritually- through the metaphysical effects of the light and shadows;

Socially- through the community that had developed organically in this here valley.

That’s what everyone thought and bought into that concept of duality until things went a little sideways. The frustration level, collectively, seemed to rise a little more each day with all of the supply chain disruptions and supermarket empty shelves. Touchstones of our past were no longer valued, and even basic economic necessities like bills, receipts, and invoices, words and numbers, the basic building blocks of our language and social relationships became more and more distorted and untethered.

The tension led to a rumor going around about certain beings coming down out of the sky at night to plunder us of our connections, values and beliefs. Yes, these beings, said to descend from above holding umbrellas over their heads, these umbrella men plundered our land in the wee hours of the morning and then somehow used their umbrellas to get back up and away to whence they came.

As the weeks wore on, it became crystal clear, through anonymous social media postings, that what was happening was a pillaging and plundering on a massive and frequent scale, very consequential and damaging indeed, much like you would hear stories from the Old West about nighttime cattle rustling and stealing horses. The Umbrella Men were similar but also completely different as they did not take our animals. They did not take our money or our things of value- gems, textiles, paintings, vehicles and such. They took everything else, all the glue that holds a society together but has no material tangibility: thoughts, customs, ideas, beliefs. These belongings were being packaged up and lifted out of the zone by the Umbrella Men.

Of course, there was no need for any real packaging. I only use that term as a reference. In the end, we still had all of our money and jewels, but we had nothing else, no way to relate with one another or make sense of the world around us. That’s when some of the populace found each other in a hidden cave beyond the lake at the edge of town to come up with a plan for the Restoration of the Collective Soul.

Arthur Metcalf stood on the shores of the lake, the glistening lights of sunrise reflecting off of the water. His soul was empty. His heart was empty. His brain struggled to form any concise thought. He was not much more than a pupa now. Existing within a living body, yet with his experiences and thoughts, wisdom and ideas having retreated to an inert section of his brain.

He stood there gazing Eastward opening and closing his mouth to breathe, similarly to what the carp were doing just below the surface of the water a few meters away from where his feet stood. Arthur had a vision of the carp and the other fish and he tried to imagine himself as one of them, with scales and fins and tiny organs, glassy eyes and one sole purpose of existence and survival. His hair was askew, and his glasses smeared. His shirt was buttoned wrong and his sandals were coming apart.

Arthur cleared his throat and looked around. His fish breathing continued. He looked at the hair on his arms, and tried to picture his limbs as scaly, flat and fin-like. His hair had been growing unevenly as of late, so he had huge clumps in some areas, while other spots were smooth and bare. His head was going that way, too. He had even tried doing a search for “uneven hair growth” and saw some extreme images there that made him realize that his tufts were not that worrisome.

Slowly, he released himself from his stupor and thought of his friends, his relations, shared experiences, the kind of brain activity and human attributes that would distinguish himself ontologically from the carp. But he did not think of his foibles. He kept those still hidden away so he would not have to contemplate them. His mind recalled other memories, random moments, that made him move his head around and look at other things, searching for something to set his eyes on as he pulled at a big clump of hair on his arm.

His fish breathing continued and he tried to stop by closing his mouth and aspirating through his nose but he was so congested that he had to open his mouth again to breathe. Some ducks were quacking as a momma swam by with seven ducklings behind her. Arthur thought of differentiation within the species, as he often did. Are some carp better at finding food than others? Are some faster? Were some better helpers than others? Some geese stood amassed along the shoreline, looking all exactly the same to his eye. He gazed over the flock in contemplation. Are some faster flyers? He asked himself. Better leaders? Nicer to the rest of the geese than others? Or were they all pretty much the same and did it matter?

He slapped at a fly on his back, and as he shifted his weight from one leg to another, his thoughts drifted down to the worms under his feet, burrowing through the earth, eating the soil and shitting it back out to make it better, to make it possible for things to grow. How impossible is that, he thought. Their stomachs, if they have such a thing, must be no larger than a peppercorn, and he briefly entertained an image in his mind of a grinder full of worm stomachs held over a salad bowl, the pieces falling down to enrich the taste of the lettuce that the worm stomachs had helped to grow in the first place.

He suddenly wanted to be closer to the worms, these amazing creatures, and the desire filled him with a will to act. He broke off a branch from a nearby oak tree and took out a knife, a pocket knife that he had recently started carrying with him for unknown reasons, and began to carve one end of the branch into a scoop. Thusly, he began digging a hole for himself to get in to be closer to the worms. The thought of death and burial did not escape him, yet it did not deter him either. He continued digging but after about a half an hour, he tired. The indenture was nearly not nearly big enough for him to submerge himself into, just deep enough for him to kneel in it or sit in it, just a few inches deep. He knelt down inside the hole. By this time the joggers were appearing in greater numbers, coming down the paved track, but not noticing him as they went by. He knelt in his hole, quietly, still gazing toward the lake.

Perhaps if he had access to a rocket ship, a space suit, years of astronaut training and more financial resources then he currently enjoyed, Arthur would have launched himself into space and gazed down upon the Earth from high above; and then perhaps turn and face the other direction, contemplating the infinite universe while orbiting round and round our bluish orb. Without this option, he had not intentionally decided but perhaps unconsciously realized it would be more convenient to come down to the lake and dig the hole.

But, had he planned to dig the hole before coming down to the lake, or rather thought of that action subsequently upon his arrival? Perhaps even Arthur himself could not say. He had trouble ordering things in such neat little chronologies, all the little specks of ideas and half-thoughts that he pictured floating around his brain like the meteors and asteroids floating throughout space. No matter how hard he tried, it was difficult for him not to ruminate on such concepts.

By this time, squatting and then kneeling, and then squatting again in his little dugout area, Arthur noticed the sun had climbed a little higher, throwing more light onto his face and making him more conspicuous to passersby, as he remained there hardly moving. The joggers passed by and glanced over. Was he a crazy person? An opioid addict? A yogi? A mindfulness practitioner? A self-referential site-specific performance artist?

The red-winged blackbirds were singing in the branches along the lakeside, calling out to their mates and to the others of their ilk. The other birds were also deep into their daily morning activities of food gathering, nest repair, territorial inspection, egg incubation and care. Some geese walked by where Arthur kneeled, then squatted, pecking at the grass and scanning the area for potential intruders.

He thought about the nomenclature of the setting he had transformed. Was it an opening – if so, to where? an enclosure? The word that his mind seemed to prefer was an indentation. The root and meaning of this word led him to think of indenture – slavery. Was this perhaps a form of self-shackling? Wouldn’t he prefer an escape or liberation activity, rather than self-containment? Or did the imposed limit ironically give him a sense of freedom?

A hole would be another possible descriptor, although maybe it wasn’t deep enough to call it that; and a hole sometimes led to something else. Where he sat and kneeled did not offer that, there was no other end. And the word hole made him think of the word whole. Digging out and removing the soil was not making something whole, quite the opposite. Did he feel more whole sitting there? He was not sure. But he did slowly shake something loose in his psyche, as the sun warmed his face. Thoughts gave way to sensations, feelings.

Maybe, he thought, it would be more accurate to refer to it as a depression. He had dug a depression into the lakeside landscape, a small depression to serve as his contemplative setting. But that word also led him down undesired roads. It signified the feeling of being depressed – unimpressive. Was he depressed? He certainly looked depressed with his downturned lips and sad eyes.

He could suddenly feel ants crawling on this arm, and when he looked down he saw that they were all over him. A rather large swarm of bigger sized ants. They were biting him. “Where did these fucking ants come from?” Arthur blurted out. They totally ruined the mood, if it could be called that, but worse so, they were biting him and it hurt. I just wanted to sit here and feel the earth and think of the worms and be contemplative, he thought. And, now this. Jesus.

He swatted and swatted and slapped at them with the branch he had fashioned into a scoop. Something always intervenes and messes everything up, Arthur angrily thought, feeling victimized by the universe, but he then realized that it was he himself who had come here and dig a little thing, a little thing to sit in, in the ground, so of course that’s where ants lived and it was really his own actions that brought this about. So, his anger at the universe quickly transformed into self-loathing. God, I’m so stupid, he thought, and felt a pain in his stomach, a tightening, which made him feel even worse.

He saw that perhaps some water was needed in this situation, to kill the ants, to drown them. Miraculously, there was an old beach pail sitting under the willow tree directly in front of him. He slowly got up, his old bones creaking, stretched a bit, and then hurried over and filled up the bucket in the lake, coming back a few times with more water until there was a little pool sitting on the bottom of his area. His setting was now altered. He would not be able to sit back in there unless he wanted to get his butt wet. He could still kneel, he thought, kneel there in the wet dug out section of dirt. He decided he did not want to do that. He had to come up with a new plan now, and he slowly walked around his area and over to the lakeshore, wondering what to do next.

As he stared out at the water, some young boys came along and saw the dirt and the water and the pail, and they got an idea. They went and got more water and dumped it into the place and then started to shape the wet earth into cylinders using the pail, thus beginning construction of a sand castle. Arthur was, at first, incensed, but then felt resigned. Of course this is happening, he thought. He sat down next to the area formerly his own. He sat on the grass a few yards away while the boys happily built something out of the wet dirt. At least they are doing something creative with the setting that I had prepared to temporarily house my existence, whereas I just sat there and thought strange thoughts.

One of the boys called out to him. “Is this your hole?”

“Yes. Well, no. I dug it but it’s not mine. You are certainly entitled to…”

The boys had stopped listening to Arthur after a few words of his response and had gone back to playing. Arthur didn’t know quite what to do so he just there a few feet away as the boys built away. The creative activity had inspired Arthur and gave him an idea, as he immediately felt ashamed of his decision that morning to come down to the lake and sit in a hole. What had seemed so tangibly important, essential even, just an hour or so before, now held no rhyme nor reason whatsoever. He had wanted to escape the feeling of goals and aspirations and the sense of doom that usually accompanied them. This made him think of his parents, strangely, and whether they had treated him right, as he sat there and watched the boys play contentedly.

Nothing is permanent, Arthur thought, as he continued his ruminations. Everything changes, yet, in time, it comes back, he muttered to himself. Some things, anyway. The geese, over there greedily chomping at the grass, for example. They are migratory. They leave, heading south, and then return. But what if it is different geese that come back in the Spring, Arthur thought, different ones than the ones that left. Or maybe they are the same geese as the ones who left, but they have changed, emotionally, and now they are different. He wanted to honor each individual goose, and think of them as just a flock.

The boys gave up on their attempts at building a sand castle, for as carefully as they tried to empty the bucket, the sand pillars kept collapsing. They started throwing the mud around, which made Arthur frustrated. He relaxed his body and laid down in the grass, and slowed his breathing. He thought he spotted a fox out of the corner of his eye, peeking out from behind the thistles. Hie fixed his eyes there, and indeed, there was a fox. And then the fox told him something. “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

The boys left and Arthur got up, stretching his legs and inched closer to the shoreline. He could see some fish beneath the surface of the water, opening and closing their mouths, waiting for a bug or a worm, anything they could swallow and be nourished by.

Paint yourself a picture, it’s easy to see

You might be reluctantly absolving me

Of purity. Flaws is all I got, you see.

Sometimes my clothes fit beautifully.

Not so shiny and not too slick. Stains

Up and down my shirt, it’s inevitably

My nature, see? Will you work with me?

Put on a bib and feed me peas? No no no.

That ain’t the scene, Baby went bye-bye

In the Plasticene.

Lingering doubts of maturity, you can saw me open

And count the rings, it could be one to one

Hundred, what are you wagering? It’s time

For a little reckoning. That’s where we’re at.

Put on a new pair of pants that’s apt, see

the tailor for some metaphysical measuring.

Time to bury the past, the little boy. All the

Baby teeth and the Christmas toys. Mere et Pere

Under the mistletoe, memories of innocence and

Potpourri, aromas from many years ago.

Requiem for a cad, a foolish clown. Light the

Fire when the sun goes down. See where the

Blue flame energy alights. A metamorphisis of

Day into night. It’s all the same, don’t preoccupy

With the strife. There’s only three or four

Reoccurring situations in your whole life.

Circular it is, in shape, not a straight trajectory.

No sense waiting for an epiphany. Bit by bit, you

Will come to see, we fill the measure with purpose

And reason. Time and place may not align with

The itinerary of an upcoming season. Or the one

That’s just past. That’s our task.

Taurus the Bull is pulling gravitationally.

Perseus and Andromeda are still trying to work

It out celestially, for us mortals who can barely

Breathe or hardly see or sit and feel the chemistry

Not easily. Eventually.

On occasion work going on in the laboratory

Takes a little more time than what’s seen on TV.

This ain’t make believe.  It’s hard to know what’s

Really real. Thoughts, decisions, little impulses that

Can either hurt or heal.

So lay me down upon the rock and slay me. Put it

On line for more viewership virally. To be born again

In the early dawn, ancestor energy infused into

The recipe. I seek not perfection nor any sacred way

Renewal is nice, a restoration of the soul. When one lands

On the muddy swamp and has to go back to Start.

Roll the dice again and this time, pay more attention

To the heart.

Just for betting purposes, look at the odds. Bet on the

Screwball, even though he’s not that well shod.

Feel it and be. Think it and see. Bet on the screwball

And you might win, win, win. Bet on the screwball

You might win.