cogito

Seed

Now you find yourself nestled in loosely packed soil. Being a seed, you begin the slow process for which you are famous. You're just floating around in this sea of particles, which is not a conducive state for anchoring a large tree. Your first job is to stabilize your position and reach out for food and water. If you succeed in this, you'll send skyward the delicate shoot that will be the trunk. If not, you'll dry out and die. These activites are all rich sources of metaphor, but not for you. You really are a seed planted in fertile soil. Your metaphors will have to come from elsewhere. You struggle like a newly married couple trying to make a place in the world, trying to start a branch for your ancient family trees. Your struggle is much like that. You do not know it, but you will succeed. In the process, however, you will become something very different. You will become a tree. There are no successful seeds, there are only trees.

Head in the Clouds

"I don't like to repeat myself. You know that."

He said this almost every day, the irony of which was completely lost on him. I smiled at him and nodded.

"It wouldn't kill you to talk once in a while," he frowned at me. "See you at the bottom." He hoisted his rig over the rail and lowered himself slowly down. I eyed the thick rope anchored to one of the thick metal anchoring loops that lined the edge of the giant, cylindrical skyscraper. There was no way to get a normal washing rig on a round building. You had to use ropes.

'What if I cut his rope?' I thought, like I always did. I'd never do it, but it always crossed my mind.

I walked to the other edge, lugging my rig. I checked my ropes. Just as I was about to hoist over the edge, I glanced at the anchor. The rope was laying beside it, not anchored. I had forgotten. My heart skipped a beat and I lunged away from the edge toward the center of the roof. I landed in a heap with my gear all around me and kept my eyes closed until my pulse was back to normal. I stared at the end of the rope laying there beside the anchor. I couldn't move.

I left the rig there in a heap. I've never been back on a roof since that day. You have to be grounded to be up there so high. You can't have your head in the clouds like you can down here on the ground.

Hounds

When the hounds are close behind, life drains away. That's the thing. They don't have to catch you. Each gasp for air and drop of sweat is like a tooth in the jugular. Madness, barking and howling, claws away your mind. When the hounds are at your heels you kill yourself. Better to lay down. They don't have to catch you, they just have to run you to death. Better to lay down, or turn and rush them. Maybe you'll get in a lucky shot. When the hounds are on your trail running is dying.

The Dead

I heard footsteps running up the sidewalk behind me in the fog. Was it day or night? It was raining. The steps were getting close now. I was nervous. Should I run?

"Scott! Scott, it's me." He stepped out of the fog. "You've got to hurry. It's Jerry."

"Jim? Jim Morrison?"

"What? Yes, of course. There's no time. Jerry and the Dead are stranded in the Arizona desert. Their bus has blown a gasket." He was breathing hard. "You've got to help them."

"Oh. This is a dream," I said, relieved.

"There's no time! It's so hot in the bus." He was on the verge of tears.

Not My Scene

Brian had brought cigars, so we all stood out on the windy patio near the 18th green in the cold night air and smoked them. I was drinking a vodka martini. Someone was drinking a crown and diet coke, a potion whose very notion causes me to cringe. The door to the lobby bar was propped open, and you could hear the crowd inside. An old guy with a long grey ponytail and beard was the Karaoke DJ. Local rednecks and Marines from the nearby base took turns singing silly, drunken country songs. People clapped and cheered for the sake of making noise and seeming happy and alive. Sitting inside after my second martini, the cigars long gone, I wrote my name and the letters "A-K-9" on a piece of paper and gave it to the DJ. After a few minutes he called my name, and I sang Peaceful Easy Feeling. It was rock enough for me to enjoy it but country enough to be in his collection. About half an hour later I sang Margaritaville. A big, happy, black Marine came up and started laughing and talking with us. "One of you guys better screw that girl, cause we can't." We laughed, but declined. Later a table of people asked me to sing Hotel California, so I did. When we left the bar at one A.M., I felt a little silly. I woke up in the morning with a cigar headache. On my way to check out, I walked through the lobby bar. It was clean and innocuous looking. I glanced around, feeling as though I had left something there the night before. Whatever it was, though, it was gone.