Time and tide wait for no man.
I’ve got a significant thirst, along with a significant fatigue. These two things have been like a harness around my neck, until I’m finally kept to task, like the warhorse I’m thinking of at the moment. I’m working at a disadvantage here, uncertain of how to take a stand on my new project. I’m thirsty and fatigued still. I crave satisfaction. It’s an unlikelihood that I’ll get another look at the same, sacred psychosis which taught me what I needed to know in order to tell this tale in the first place. I understand well enough, I suppose. I think I’ll just go ahead and lay it down here.
How does a human being relate to animals so deeply, so as to personify them in one’s writing? Well, I’ve done so myself, in the personification of the Two Legged and the Four Legged, which happen to be the wild deer and the wild man, hiding among the trees; endangered on the highways and the byways of life. There happen to be the thoughts of the wild things of this world, which can only tangibly be treated by the author, to grasp another palpable, sacred psychosis, or just another unique train of thought every now and then. I’d like to tell the tale more fully.
That’s the thing.
This train of thought perpetuates itself as I’m keying into the ideas coming to me as I work. The time does not lend itself to getting a lot of the work done all at once. It’s only part of the parameters of the whole tale I’m telling here and there. Sunrise, sunset. What your born with is what you get. I’m running out of time to be in this frame of mind, before the clock demands I lay my head down again.
My muse is nothing less than a wild deer, who finds her own way into this human-cluttered world, where not even a cool drink of fresh water, or a good long rest, are neither one frequently available to the honored guest, in this life of exertion and strife. The beloved creatures are only a thing of memory for the mage, at this late date in his life. The spinner of tales has to learn to take himself in stride, for this life of writing. There are stories to tell at this juncture of the business. Time is fleeting, and the Bambi are being edged out of their surroundings more frequently than ever before. They’re being shot more frequently, too. The frenzy about having been overrun by them is a lie.
My Bambi is a significantly disenfranchised individual, who has been promised a life of riches and glory, in a magnificent world of green pastures and babbling brooks, with the cool waters tripping over smooth stones. But that world has become littered with man-made stone and fences, with suicide machines going to and fro on the man-made stone, going faster than any buck or doe could ever possibly comprehend.
There is no government, no hierarchy of deer to resort to, to receive the explanation of the nature of human things. There’s a communications block between even the author and the deer, by this late date in the author’s life. Bambi has to resort to their wits in order to understand. There is only the one with the broken hip, which keeps the faithful one from ever getting behind the wheel of the suicide machines again. This ends his search for any glimpse of his beloved, the four legged, ever again in his lifetime, his fortunes notwithstanding. It’s immaterial that the two legged has any cognizance of his beloved, ever again. They don’t know, or care.
The two legged has been disenfranchised, the same as his beloved has, in this life of a mock fulfillment. The riches of this life are scarcely palpable to either the lover or beloved. The lover has only done the honorable thing, and ended up where the Almighty has put him, in the perspective of a solitary two legged, who has no recourse for his own isolation anymore than he might have had earlier.
His suicide machine has been taken away from him, along with his official ratification of forever doing the search for his beloved again, from the suicide seat in the machine. His environment had once included the magnificent presence of the four legged. There was a time when the two legged had all the liberty anyone could ever hope for. All this has been usurped from him, as well as much more of what the two legged had taken for granted in his life. But this particular two legged has truly known the mind of the Bambi. It’s not necessary to encounter more of them in passing, in order to know his own sacred psychosis any better.
The two legged is a man with good memory recall.
He remembers the four legged, and the many facets of their dimensions. Their reality, which has been ripped from his comprehension, in the process of making him more suitable for the world of the two legged again, is still just as real to him, in spite of the avarice of various other two legged.
It was their object in the first place, to cheat him out of everything, but they failed.
They heaped needles upon needles into him, and kept him in a stall he couldn’t get out of, waiting for the time the old ones would come to take him home. There was a promise of home in those days. He was young then. The time has gotten by, and the two legged has learned that he can never go home again, because home does not exist for him anymore, anymore than it does for the four legged.
They share this plight between them. Most people would not abandon their search, but this two legged knows the power of the ties that bind him. His friend tells him he can take driver’s ed, and get himself a new driver’s license, and rent a car anytime he wants to. The man is right, too.
There is something of the stall the two legged was kept in, where the other two legged forced him to submit, with needles to his butt, as though he were just another animal. The reality of the two legged has been taught to become a matter of question for him over and over again. The two legged is just adamant enough to believe his own experience, not the demands of those around him.
He fears thinking with the mind of the Bambi, for fear the two legged with the barking sticks will come back and take him back to that stall, where the two legged, himself, can’t get out without the other two legged letting him go. It’s tough for the man to trust his own mind in this matter. The strong ones could lock him down easy as one, two, three.
That the two legged was never mistaken about his perceptions is a revelation to him. He was only confused about what he thought he knew, for some time in his life. He had gotten through the entire experience, and still knows that the four legged are just as alive as he is. He was never wrong about that. They have just as much reality and sacred psychosis as he does. The two legged believe they are the only ones with a sacred reality. They don’t believe in the sanctity of a psychosis like the one man does. The one man has a sacred reality, which is a sacred psychosis. Call it what you will. It’s his. Those four legged are not stupid, as that old country boy once said they were.
Just because the four legged don’t understand the concept of suicide machines going at high speeds, doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Who does that guy think he is, anyway? He’ll be going to a crazy place where only the two legged go, right along with the one man, one day. They have weird places, like their stores and their homes to go. Then they’ll go sit in the woods and throw a barking arm a long way at the four legged, to tear the guts out of one or another of the Bambi, just to get at the venison, and take that away from them, which is their flesh.
The Bambi doesn’t understand the loud, barking arms of the many two legged who come hiding in the woods, anymore than they understand suicide machines.
They’ve been just as disenfranchised as their lover has ever been.
The driver took a car load of us shopping today, from the place of good fortune and comfortable ties, where I happen to reside with impunity at the moment. I had a need of getting in some supplies in, and was taken care of very well by the powers that be. I noticed there was a homeless person at the grocery store, not bothering anyone, just obviously at loose ends, on foot on the outside the store, in the parking lot. He found a place on the ground to settle straight down to, after a time of indecision.
The powers that be did succeed in moving the Queen out yesterday. Here I am writing about being disenfranchised? What do I think I’m talking about? My resources are still holding out with some considerable strength of spirit. It’s not improbable for one to run out of money living in a place like this. That’s for certain. I feel a need to declare my gratitude at this point in the story.
I’m not running away, out into the woods, with no resources at all, or having no one to call on for help whenever I’m distressed. I’m well taken care of where I am. I’m an old buck, myself, and know my own frailties well enough by this time in life. My vitality is a lot less considerable than it ever was, not that I’m on my last legs at this point. I remember having the mind of a wild deer, at least at one point in my lifetime. But I’m in a lot better circumstances now than I ever was in those days.
I can remember running away from every place, when my mind was not in touch with what was going on within me. I nearly got hit by a car when I tried to run across a street, like a wild deer would do, caught in the midst of traffic. People getting hit by cars would demolish the cars and lose their lives if hit, just like the deer do. Our intellect does not shelter us from accident, anymore than the innocence of the wild creatures shelters them.
I have no great thrust to describe the mind of psychosis, or the mind of a wild animal at this point in my work. What I’m reminded of is the great discomfort and unkindness I’ve found in the world around me, prior to arriving at this very nice place where I happen live at the moment. I cannot complain at the way things are here. There is only the one irony about the way they serve us our meals with a sort of Southern Style cooking, unlike anything this old Yankee has ever had to eat in life. It’s definitely an adjustment for an old coot like me.