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 Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 2:35 pm
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The Firefly (January 21 - February 19): Repeating the same line of a poem over and over, unsure how it ends.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
The slow wildebeest languishes by the pond, requiring sustenance ever few hours. I cannot be bothered. I sleep. Food stores are getting low. I'm not as slow as the pond edges lapping.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
The fruit has shriveled up past the point of dried. I cannot deny that white fuzziness is just the catch light off of the morning dew. I'm sure I'll find some along the path. Maybe someone will give it to me. I have more interesting things to do like welcome the flies' buzzing.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
The water has dried up and this is no longer a pond. The birds visit another place and call it home. The fish have died or grown legs. I saw their cute tails. Soil is much different when it is dry. I'll come sojourn another time, another season, another day, anything but today. Tomorrow perhaps.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
Their endless chatter is maddening. Don't they know I want to be left alone. Later, later, I tell them. Another day, I promise half heartedly. We know I won't follow through. I just want to be alone. Let me enjoy my alone time, my solitude, my quiet balance with the Swamp. She's getting darker, dimmer and gray just like me. They beckon to move on to richer hunter grounds of yore. It's time for me to sleep and when I wake I'll come looking for good company and fishing. You should believe me. After a dance and song of words, they leave me with stores of food and water. See? The swamp will provide. I'll thank their meddling another time.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
My bones ache and each breath is a heavy empty rattle to nowhere. I sleep longer and the sun's rays do not reach. I'm always cold, my blood must move like thick sludge. My hearing has diminished but I am not without resources. Friendly spiders have created cobwebs in my ears to help. My tail flickers to and fro. I haven't left this particular spot next to my favorite log in days. I'm growing tired again. A mongoose's nut has rolled haphazardly to my general vicinity. With great effort i pry open an eye to glare but such feelings or lost on my clouded stare. It doesn't notice me. I grouse and grumble but do not move. The swamp keeps on moving and changing, but I like my spot here. The days are darker and I don't remember when I last ate or drank. I've grown beyond that. It's too much effort to turn my head to block out the critter's endless chatter. I close my eyes and dream one final time.
"I'll do it tomorrow, I want to play.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's today?"
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 3:29 pm
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The Half-Bloom (February 20 - March 20): Work is too hard, better to just lie down and take a nap.
"You'll never catch a mate looking like that" Mother shrilled. She never stated anything. She screamed, threatened and demanded her words until they took some semblance to that of a sentence. And thus the endless spectacle of parades that happened every day. It was exhausting, taxing, emotionally abusive but worst of all, toxic and devious. This lifestyle of never measuring up to Mother's expectations were difficult and ultimately a gateway to other vices and a lifetime of bad habits. And here we are, caught up to my modern day predicament.
Him. So glorious, so true, he had to be real. He must exist in some far remote corner of the swamp. He was too good to be true, but MotherFather always provided. After all, the Zikwas just came out of hiding. Perhaps he was squirreled away at the top of some mountain, on an island in the forever blue sea or deep inside the earth and was waiting for her to come. She wasn't the rescuing type but perhaps she would change her tactics. Closing her eyes, she entered the dream realm and picked a favorite dream she knew by heart:
Great gold of noon time sun ringed the fiery bottomless black of the pupil in his signature stare. The way he looked at a doe would melt them in their tracks. And then he would swing the graceful arc of a neck into a perfect bow and likewise, a halo of perfect silk would majestically descend to drape against a lithe neck. He sauntered into each grove of trees, commanding presence and devotion all without uttering a world. And when he saw her, he would taste poetic justice and be equally awestruck by her amazing beauty and demeanor. She was the perfect one. She would accept nothing less, nor would he. And like two rare equals in a dizzying array of dirty swampland, they would go and carve out their own territory, loving each other up. In the dead of winter he would be the dashing hero who kept her warm and foraged for food and come winter, the results of their amorous ways would result in a hardy clutch.
This was her dream. the same one over and over again. Either her Mother's deliberate, flawed design or the doe's unique escaping mechanism, she grew up never living in the moment. She might lightly step for a breath in the past but she always ran full speed ahead with the future firmly in her sight. As such, she grew up learning to lust after the havenots instead of enjoying what she did have. Like her endless stream of suitors who would wait forever a day for her until they saw the sign in the stars. Curiously insatiable, she pushed herself to a new adventure each day trying to find him. And after a hard march, she would lie down and close her eyes to dream the old one once more, like a comforting dip in her favorite pond. Off to another adventure.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 7:45 pm
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The Old Mountain (March 21 - April 20): There are seven stones standing in a wide, empty field.
It started out simple enough. One stone for each of the directions and then the half way points. North, East, South West- Never Eat Soggy Worms. But then the in between points wanted to shine thus we had north east, north west, south east and finally south west. All in 8. They got along well enough as barely sentient things could, but like all things, theirs was a story of growth. Whether forward or backward, it didn't matter as long as they were not stagnant, like sticks in the mud. They were better than that.
Like all stories, one was not happy. North wanted to move. Anywhere but here, the rock groused. North made for an excellent argument: the hunting lands were changing, the streams were cutting in the earth, the floods got stronger. It was time to move. Switching tacts and using time honored fear, North cried, "We will be buried!" Like all great friends, there was one who balanced North. South was quiet throughout the ordeal. Time moves differently when you don't have limbs. "And where will we go?" "Anywhere but here!" North suggested once more. The rocks shifted and sighed and surveyed their domain. The sun's ever reaching rays would find them as surely as Winter did each fourth season. Just as well, they could stay here. But North was determined. North went to the wet lands. It was not right. North went to where water became hard as stone. Too cold. North would be forgotten in the white blanket that never stopped. North went to where the sand blasted endlessly and the temperatures fell at night. You have to be kidding! North went to where nothing escaped the wet. Exasperated, North fell to the side and stared at the sky. After a small eternity, North went back to the other 7 stones and started a new round of discussions:
Where did we come from?
They looked to the sky. They looked to the shores. They looked to the very end. In circles they debated, sometimes they were satisfied, but often naught. It didn't matter. North was back with them. Until finally, one day, a huge Crane fell in a swoop with an innate grace that had not once witnessed ever. The Crane greeted them, heralded the new season for change and zeroed in on North.
"Won't you fly with me?" the Crane asked in that ageless voice. Those eyes shined too brightly, but North greedily accepted the escape from the mundane.
Up and up they soared until breath was impossible. Upon a new backdrop North played. Swirling and twinkling endlessly, the Crane tossed North up the very top and commanded obedience. North would stay there and lead the way so that in rain, shine, snow or lightning, North will always be visible from all points of the sky so that all may see which direction North is.
Seasons passed and the doe found herself at an old forgotten pocket of the swamp looking at seven lone rocks in a familiar pattern.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 8:07 pm
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The Mangrove (April 21 - May 21): A sweet doe sings a song of lost love.
Three blind mice. Three blind mice. Oh!
See how they run. See how they run. Oh!
They all ran after the crow's carcass and leak, Oh!
Who cut bit their tails with a wicked sharp beak, Oh!
Did you ever see such a sight in your life, Oh! Just see...
As three blind mice?
She disliked when her disability or lack of clear vision was used to define her. Gloom and Doom never made her feel that way but their absence was felt hardest through their egalitarian view point. She was never without company for she had a cheetah and da stag beetle, vicious aloof things too mean to die. Their muteness was a silent condemnation or approval depending on the day or season. For she mourned a great love that was not meant to be. The shy stag that told her stories, left her adorned with florals but unlike Doom and Gloom, not in garlands but just a sole flower, a more poignant and powerful reminder of what she was, a night blooming jasmine variety her found. A great traveller like all other kimeti and kin, the Stag could not be found, but always happened to show up when needed. Blessings were usually how their paths intersected, but for the life of her, she could not force a chance encounter. Sitting on her own log with the fireflies as her only audience, she sang a song of pined lost love. It started out sweet enough in an amateur ballad but quickly devolved into a dirge and came full circle as an old rhyme all fillies and foals learned early in life.
Three blind mice. Three blind mice. Oh!
See how they run. See how they run. Oh!
They all ran after the crow's carcass and leak, Oh!
Who cut bit their tails with a wicked sharp beak, Oh!
Did you ever see such a sight in your life, Oh! Just see...
As three blind mice?
She wasn't a Mare. At least not yet. And as she uttered that simple observation, her poignant lyrics took an upbeat swing and in full regalia of adorned vines, florals and sweetly hidden poisons, she jumped right back into the doe she was when she met him. If she couldn't find him in this life, perhaps in the next she will. So headstrong was she that she forged her life so that it would intertwine with his, his permission and the swamp's be damned. She was determined, she was proud, but most importantly, the final root slid back in place and Look-See stopped her pinning and sad ballad of a song. She sang a new one of hope and joy. Her hope and joy that is. And dreams fulfilled. None of that redemption stuff for this doe was perfect the way she was, even if she could not see well. Never one to wallow on the have nots, she celebrated in her natural talents and became ever more driven. If only Doom and Gloom could see her now.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 8:12 pm
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The Twins (May 22 - June 21): The birds are out and curious despite the cold.
The swamp compensates for every living floral and fauna. As such, the mighty beasts of carnage have arrived. Vultures, crows and carrion gather at slim pickings in the frozen wasteland that is the swamp. What carcasses they find, they decimate until it fades blessedly against the white backdrop. From up high, even hawk eyes would have trouble discerning between the unforgiving hardness of bones and fluffy snow. But something has drawn them to this very tip of the swamp where the water edges meet. Something riles their feathers and they look on, eerily quiet. It's the calm before the storm and the birds of carrion are the only ones invited.
The blizzard has quieted and blanketed the swamp. Freshly disturbed snow give way to fluffy foot prints. Much too furry and soft to be birds, what can they be? Quizzically the crows are the first to investigate. They swoop down and add more prints to the snow. No scent can be found. Ice melts rapidly to water, distributing the scent cleanly between the snow. Through their hierarchy they chatter and discover nothing of consequence. Pah! Disgusted, the hawks swoop in with no luck. Eagles fair no better. Finally, the clumsy vultures plop down with much aplomb and fanfare with brilliant failure. By now the once pristine tracks in the snow are muddled with the others or pecked to obscurity. No scent can be held. No history can be told. They are puzzled and at a decidedly dead end.
A buzzing sensation of red anger starts in a small corner until it crescendos into a wave that affects all. The blame game in all its fine glory washes over the scavengers. The hawks were to be blamed. No, the big oaf of vultures. Beware their size! The crows suspect the eagles until all have a dog in this fight. And just as it was the calm before the storm, a definitive hard snap can be heard. A hawk has snapped a crow's neck at its breaking point. It's a bloody mess of a blood bath as it's a free for all. In a senseless frenzy the birds attack one another. Feathers are a flying, beaks are gouged, tails ripped, and bodies pile up as blood is spilled. There's no end insight, no rhyme or reason until a final hush falls on the scene. Even in the calm snow falling breeze tinged in salt of the blood, there's still silent breaths to be heard. One final wheezing gasp gives way to an eerie calm. Out from behind rocks, a shadow slips by and surveys its handiwork. Good thing the birds are a vicious sort and a good chunk of the feathers are missing. That was always the most tedious part. A slow up turn of the corners of the mouth happens until slowly a full on smile morphs into being. Finally, the true feasting can begin. Thanking the MotherFather in an inverse of a prayer, the being crouches down for the first delicious lick.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 9:01 pm
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The Three Horn (June 22 - July 22): A great lake in the heart of the swamp is frozen over -- except at its very center.
Ice, snow, cold, blast, white, blizzard, endless, forever alone, it is a frigid waste land of a swamp. There's no good reason for any kin to go out in this weather. Not even Totoma would dare venture; they pay heed to time honed instincts very well. It's cold, dreary and basically suicidal. But then again, fortune favors the bold for at this exact juncture in time, two totomas have braved the cold weather. More importantly, our story starts with the pair of them venturing onto a frozen lake but at the epicenter, ice has not finished her sinking claws. There's still water lapping quietly and menacingly at the edges. Or is it a cry for help? The totomas come closer. The wind carries the whispers of the water.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
It's an endless, toneless beckoning. Should they pay heed they ask one another. Tentatively reaching across the landscape, one dips her horns down, hoping it would block out the howling wind. She doesn't hear anything. Creeping closer she tilts her head to try the other ear. Quick like lightning that never strikes twice, she is pulled under. In this dead winter of calmness, there's no undertow but she can't find her footing. She breaks more of the surface as she thrashes and futilely attempts a clumsy escape. Her companion is here to the rescue. Oh wait, he's not. Ever the valiant, vain idiot of a hero, he gives her a piece of vine tied around his horn. Because she's wet and freezing rapidly she's heavier and eventually through hard won dilligence, she tips him into joining her. He falls headfirst. Skeletal, icy laughter can be heard. It is not hers. It is not his. The laughing refuses to cease. Eventually they stop their thrashing as the cold cuts deep into their bones, severing all thought from their brain to their bodies. It's the final minutes. They gaze at one another because that's all they can do. Slowly they slink as their vision darkens around the edges. Further and further they descend. It cannot be helped. Their end is near. A long warble of unspoken pleas and desires are voiced in fat, plopping bubbles until lacking the grace of a dying swan, one lone bubble reaches the surface and it's quiet once more. The wind picks up, covering any traces of what happened and the water ices over. Slowly voices can be heard and the wind is all too eager to help deliver them across the swamp.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
Please save us. Come closer.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 9:34 pm
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The Hunter (July 23 - August 22): In the dream you turn and see no shadow behind you.
She sleeps and dreams in words or sounds of a forgotten time. On an endless journey with no particular destination in mind, she wanders forward in the direction of the rising sun. Clip Clop, she hears footsteps behind her. Clip clop, they never stop. Clip clop, my how rude! She turns around and does not see anyone, not even a shadow. Her shadow isn't there either. Distressed she mews into the dream ground and shakes her head to and fro. If this were not a dream, she'd have worried herself into a migraine or an early bout of heart burn. Alas, there are some perks to dreaming as luck would have it.
The new search begins: to find her shadow. She asks the crows if they have seen it. She's s**t out of luck. The jelly fish cannot talk. The eagles tell her to eat sand. Cheetahs are too fast for her to catch. The eaglehounds just want to talk about sticks and chasing them. She doesn't give chase. She's got more important things to do. The wasps threaten to sting. She believes them. They're mean and grey. The water snake is only interested in dancing. Owl cats cannot be trusted and the lynx, well freaking cat pretty much sums up how they are. They could answer but what's the point? Nothing can make them and they know it. Swans and foxbuns are more cute than brains so sadly they are of no help. The moth and song bird promise her a ride but how is it possible if she's bigger than them? Solved almost instantly. This is dream world. Thinking small but grandly, she is able to hop onto their backs and survey they land.
She soars on their back closest to the sun until she can almost touch the yellow orange seed. Scorched, sun burnt and tanned, she gallops to a distance back. She should have known this was the quintissential dream. Like dreams in real life, the harder she searched for remembrance or meaning, the more elusive it became. Of course she did not find her shadow, until finally she slumped forward on their tiny forms and retreated. Giving up, she circled the area. And that's when she saw a slip of a shadow. Two shadows actually, moving in tandem though never in sync. One in front, the other in back. And they trade off. It's a fascinating game of diversion and tactics, one she is not familiar with. All in all, it'a a senseless silly pair of shadows she's not chasing. Willing the wings closer the looks at her prey. Furbies. A pair of them. One wall eyed and the other normal, both possessed. No wonder she could not find her shadow or theirs. They defied logic and by natural selection, they should not even exist. In that loop hole, they created more and gave reality a big flipping 'whatever.' She groaned. It was almost impossible to reason with furbies. She needed her shadow more than anything. She would trade...
The dream ends.
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Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2015 9:46 pm
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