Archive for the 'Animal Matters' Category

Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I have a recurring fantasy that if one were to dial the telephone number of someone in the past, one would hear again a familiar voice, and time would instantly rewind from now to then. I still have Orson Welles’ telephone number in my book (213-851-8458). Do I dare ring him and talkstill here to him back in 1982, where he is busy trying to convince Jack Nicholson to play Pellarin for two not four million dollars? Should I tell him that he’ll not get the picture made? No. That would be too harsh. I’ll pretend that I have somehow got a copy of it, and that I think it marvellous though perhaps the handkerchief was, from so prudish a master, a bit much? Even incredible.

“Incredible?” The voice booms in my ear.”How could it be incredible when I stole it from Othello? But now I have a real treat for you. Standing here is your neighbour . . . Rudy Vallee! Overcome that ‘quiet reserve of shyness.’ Sing!

From out of the past, I hear, “My time is your time,” in that reedy highly imitable voice. The after-life’s only a dial tone away. “What makes you think that this is the after-life?” Orson chuckles. “This is a recording.” Stop story here.

—Gore Vidal, “Remembering Orson Welles”

I Am A Peanut Farmer

A fun thing, when you’re trying to grow things, is seeing what might decide to grow, that pretty much has nothing to do with you, and your sweet amusing gentle intentions.

Here, I have to, daily, feed the squirrels and the jays. The favorite let there befood of each, both, is peanuts. So, every day, I slather the brick rail, with said nuts.

Many things, here, I would like to grow, but they die on the vine; never come up; are chewed back to nothingness by invisible insects; are thrown out of their holes by raccoons; are slob-hooved trampled by deer; are just too frightened and depressed to even much try to grow.

But then, there are peanuts. I have not planted even one of these. They are not supposed to even grow here. But the jays and the squirrels—in their world, some of the peanuts you eat; some you bury.

The bury peanuts. Are now busting out all over. They are boldly, bravely, sprouting, in every nook and cranny, here on the grounds of the Manor. More, I find, every day. And I am bringing them along. I did not plant them. But I am, now, a peanut farmer.

Squeal Like A Pig

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

—Martin Luther King

All The Other Kids

Nose For News

All day I have been seeing these headlines about some racehorse and “nasal strips.”

Do I even want to snortknow what this is about?

No. I do not.

All I know is that yesterday I bought a pink plastic watering can in the shape of a pig; when you water, the water flows out the pig’s twin noseholes.

This, clearly, is the zenith of both the industrial age, and the information age.

As they say in scripture: “It is accomplished.”

Both ages: they are over.

Now, we can move on to something else.

As we can move on to something else from “riding” a horse in a “race.”

When you are with an animal, when an animal is with you, you are only, who you are, when it’s an island.

Just you two.

And you are an animal. All of you.

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

it’s your day
woman’s day

Yada Yada Yada, Blah Blah Blah

Let There Be Lust

(Reprinting this here because I’m still grumpy from making the mistake May 1 of descending into the pre-monolith political blogs, wherein knuckle-dragging screechers and screamers were, foam-flecked, furiously flinging feces at one another, as to whether anarchists, dewcommunists, or slow-moving centrist sloths, did first come up with “May Day.”

(All of them: wrong. So wrong. So completely wrong.

(For the day, outside this so desensualized industrial age, has never had anything whatsoever to do with anything so foul and filthy and sterile and impotent and neuter and non-productive and fleeting and impermanent and totally over as “labor,” as “work.”

(May Day: it’s a fuck festival. Always has been; always will be. Alpha and omega. Unto the end. Amen.)

Millennia before the political people got hold of it, May Day was for lovers.

Equidistant between the Vernal Equinox and the Summer Solstice, arrived that day when human beings participated in the seasonal renewal of life by themselves bursting into bloom—making love.

Or, sometimes, simply, easily, naturally: in “but” fucking.

Details varied. In some places, particularly in the Celtic realm, this day was known as Beltane. Sometimes a woman and man, recognized as particularly sympathetic to or skilled in the magic arts, would, representing the Goddess and God themselves, couple in a ritualized ceremony, either observed or alone, and most often in a freshly seeded field.

Very often, as it says here, “[y]oung couples were encouraged to test their fertility with Beltane trysts, and any babies born from Beltane were believed to be blessed by the Goddess herself.” Pretty magical, such witch children.

Too, “[t]rial unions, called hand-fastings (as the lovers’ clasped hands were bound by ribbon), were also popular at Beltane, committing the couple to each other for one year and a day in preparation for a marital commitment.” Such a ceremony is today popular among some contemporary neo-pagans.

Other places, on this day, there was a sort of relationship “time-out,” when the people of the tribe, in the interest of renewing the earth, could couple indiscriminately, and without consequence.

furthur=>

The Morning After

get no

We Are Accomplished

Let Us Pray

An Actual Really Truly Live “Good Friday” Would Mean A Naked Stoned Hippie Woman Sirened Jesus Onto A Plane, Bound For The Great Ride Open, Flying Him Forever And Away From The Cross

‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.

He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.

Gethsemane

Maundy, Maundy

Maundy Thursday is the Christian feast, or holy day, falling on the Thursday before Easter. It commemorates the Maundy and Last Supper of Jesus . . . Most scholars agree that the English word Maundy in that name for the day is derived through Middle English and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word he beof the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos.” (“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”)

—wiki

I won’t leave the attic
and with apologies to Apollinaire I can smoke
while working. I’m doing it
I’m going to it. The jerks are working
empty handed and then they pick up
twigs. Now they want to smoke me
out, but I’m too bat-like!
too happy with my stash and rock and
roll. Unlike the souffle below
who intends to burst. Deep breath, funny air.

—Jeffrey Miller

Jesus On The Storm

. . . . You Were Only Waiting, For This Moment, To Be Free

Love Is Lord Of All

Eve Crucified

Into The Great Weird Open

I’m Telling You, So You Can Tell

Upon A Thousand Hills

Last year there were a lot of daffodils, but not a lot of iris.

This year there were almost no here today, gone tomorrowdaffodils, but now there is a lot of iris.

I have no idea why this is. Because no one is talking.

When you are a red and transparent bearded dragon, and you are really relaxed, sleeping at night, up there on your sticks, you just let your front legs totally hang down.

I now have three wicker rocking chairs, and two wicker non-rockers.

I am The Wicker Man.

When you are zebra finches, you are real easy about what is “daylight.”

If somebody turns a light on where you are, you come out of your nest and start klacking around, as if it is the dawn.

Humans should not take advantage of this. They can muck up their own sleep schedules, but they should not discombobulate these Klacks.

If you are trying to grow outside various different-one plants, and you go to the intertubes, to attempt to learn what deer will not eat, you cannot, in the more pleaseend, trust anything that you read.

For there is only one thing, for sure, that no deer, anywhere, will not eat, and that is cement.

Squirrels get a bad reputation among humans because most humans only observe squirrels on the road. Where they zig and zag back and forth in front of incoming automobiles.

This leads humans to believe that squirrels are brainless. But they are not.

A lot of Bad Animals want to eat squirrels. Squirrels cannot outrun many of these Bad Animals. But they can confuse and frustrate the fuck out of them, by zigging and zagging, zigging and zagging. Through this, they can often get away.

When humans started inflicting automobiles upon the planet, about 100 years or so ago, squirrels, quite rightly, regarded these automobiles as a Danger. Evolution had taught them that the way to evade Danger—if there was no tree immediately at hand—is to zig and zag.

That doesn’t often work with automobiles.

But you can’t blame the squirrels.

Evolution sometimes takes a long time to catch up. For instance, the reason why many—and soon most—Americans, they are as help me, spockfat as blimps, is because humans evolved to savor most the taste of fruit and meat. Which, these days, means candy bars and McDonalds hamburgers. Affordable to almost anybody.

For 100,000 years, fruit and meat were most often in short supply. No longer.

And so Americans, till evolution catches up, will weigh more than many planets.

Some creatures, in re automobiles, have it even worse than squirrels.

Take the wolverine. Evolution had taught the wolverine that, no matter what it was, even if it was a grizzly bear, the best thing to do was to stand and fight.

And so, when the automobile was unleashed upon the land, the wolverine would stand in the road, and say to the automobile: “C’mon.”

This is why, today, there are no wolverines, where there are automobiles.

Squirrels, when not afflicted by automobiles, are actually pretty disciplined and direct.

They have also, over the last two years, buried about 700,000 peanuts around this yard.

This is what amuses me about archeologists and such who dig up my friendsome shard from 7000 years back and then construct an entire Reality around it.

For, if someone were to dig up this place, a century or two along the line, they would no doubt conclude: “this property, without doubt, was a peanut plantation.”

When, in truth, there were just a fair number of squirrels, and jays, to whom I fed peanuts. Because they liked them so. And because I liked them, so.


When I Worked

August 2014
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