I have lately been trying to find patterns to think about over and over in the observation of what is called nature by humans outside of my locked door. In my opinion, I was having a pretty good day at it. It was seventy degrees in January, the white magnolias were blooming prematurely, the manzanita appeared to be showing off mauvish tendencies, and the hummingbirds were tripping on mushrooms growing out of an unidentified pile of shit.
I have learned much about multiversal tendencies from the tawny owl, although he would vehemently deny any correlation between my thinking and his. I don’t believe he necessarily means to be so offensive about it, though. Gaps often appear between voids before closing. That’s reliably universal if not multiversal.
Also, I have noticed that the tawny owl often snacks as a means of relieving the tension caused by stressful events, and he was chewing as we spoke. He claims otherwise, of course, and recites voluminous multi-dimensional figures and shapes in his favor, but I don’t have to buy it. I was watching his sharp jaw work as I thought it over. Clearly, there was something going on there. Again, though, I know better than to argue.
“The restorative juices in slime are essential for well rounded ellipses in efficient thought,” he exclaimed.
“Are you making fun of me again?”
“Not in the way that you think. Can’t you see I’m eating a delicacy?”
He was munching on what appeared to be several juicy morsels of a banana slug with a look in his arched right eye that seemed more disturbing than usual.
I asked, “Is that one or two?”
He said, “Define your terms.”
Clearly enough, the bounty of slime was overflowing. Great gobs of it. It was not only green, but yellowish. On a previous occasion that I can remember, the tawny owl had declared the addition of all of the slime in the lower echelons of dirt to be equivalent to the greatest prime number in all of the universes at war.
I asked, “How many is that?”
He said, “Only this one.”
I said, “Who knew?”
Then, he began recounting to me major facts about the holocaust of the redwood trees in Santa Cruz County in the twentieth century. No segue required. This was a new angle to a story I had heard before. The numbers seemed to slip easily off his tongue.
“The most horrific holocaust of all time.”
“What about the Jews?”
“Not even close.”
I said, “Whoa.”
“Thirteen trillion creatures were unaccounted for, lost. Like zephyrs, gone. Like that. Like spent sperm. There is moaning in many of the layers under the topsoil to this day.”
“How many layers are there?”
The tawny owl polished off the banana slug and seemed content enough, until he suddenly uttered, “Ach.”
I said, “Uh oh.”
I knew that meant he had somewhere better that he would rather be. The Santa Cruz Mountains offer him a wide smorgasbord of opportunity better than any bipedal could provide. I had been honing in on many of the peculiarities of the patterns of his behavior that he assumed I could not understand.
When he flew off, my opinion was confirmed. I did not take the obvious affront personally.
I think as much as any world weary fellow traveler that it is necessary to suffer slings and arrows and all of that associated razzamatazz in order to proceed to a higher level, but that does not mean it is a good idea to take any of it personally. It seems to me to be easier to swallow that way. I have no statistics to cite on my side and no reason to go looking for any. Statistics that are never sought out rarely pop up in the news. I always love when politicians begin speechifying by saying, “There is no evidence to believe…”
Thirteen trillion, though, is a large enough number to add up to horrific in any text book. That’s not even counting the trees where those dirty pages are coming from. I don’t think that should be used as a modifier, though, and certainly not as an excuse.
Slime tends to beget slime. That is as simple and as complex as it gets, or needs to. Many well known sagas in seemingly unrelated genres such as sci-fi, chick lit, YA, and horrid gothic romance, have confirmed it categorically.
There is no evidence to believe otherwise.
Do you believe in letting bygones be bygones?
What happens when your bygones come back to bite you on the ass?
COMING SOON: GET IT WHILE YOU CAN