We ebb and we flow
pulled by a force beyond our own volition
and we are carried by it
drawn as we were in the beginning
in that glimpse of dawn on the horizon
that led us to these shores
and we wade in far past the warnings of the wise
playing with those moments
where the undertow becomes too strong
for our weak grasp to prevent
and we find ourselves dragged under
scraped against the bottom
fighting for air
yet still unwilling to break away from that current
knowing that it draws us towards
that glimpse of dawn against the gloom
and that once we learn to stop fighting
once we see that the ocean is rich
with the oxygen and life
we learn how to open new eyes
to breathe with new lungs
until we become as one
with that life force
neither pulled by it
nor pulling
but rather part of all we once fought
to become
The mice put on their coats and headed out into the crisp afternoon. They had been looking forward to their outing all morning and had enthusiastically finished their chores at 270 Mouse Hole Lane. Although Molly’s tiny front claws were quite sore from the dusting and her hind quarters ached from having stood for so long while vacuuming. Mikkel was still recovering from getting his tail caught in the dryer while doing the many loads of laundry from the week. One would think that mice would not have so many clothes or any clothes at all in fact, but Molly and Mikkel enjoyed fashion and they often shopped at the The Mouse Gap and Mouszara in downtown, Strangeville where they lived.
The sun was bright but the wind had a chill and Molly commented, “You know we might have been better off with sweaters instead of coats, I think the wool would have helped keep the dampness out.” “Mmmhmmm” said Mikkel absently. He was no longer thinking about what he was wearing and which may have been the better option in terms of both style and comfort. He was focused on the events of the day ahead and was eager to get to Odding Park, where the excitement was waiting to greet them.
“Hello there Molly and Mikkel,” chimed Charla. Charla, as always, was cheerful and kind in her greetings. She was carrying an incredibly tiny basket filled with even tinier cupcakes, because after all, Chipmunks do not have the biggest hands in the world. Actually they have no hands. And I am pretty sure not many have ever baked cupcakes…but not everyone was Charla and not everyone lived on Rodent Alley in the charming town of Strangeville.
“Hi Charla” sang Molly and Mikkel. “Are you on your way to the park?” they asked.
“Yes indeed, “answered Charla happily. “I made some acorn cupcakes this morning. I think they will be nice and tasty, although I did almost burn down the Oaktree Apartments, since I am not really used to using a gas stove…being a Chipmunk and all, but I tried one from the first batch and O MY! They are gooood.”
“I can’t wait to try one said Molly, who by now was really looking forward to arriving at Odding Park since her new purple rubber boots were starting to give her a blister on one of her tiny foot claws. And also it was hard to keep walking upright and keep her hind legs straight like that. But the rubber boots were so cool; she had not been able resist purchasing them online from E-Creature.
As they rounded the corner on Personification Boulevard, the music reached their tiny round ears. The wind caught Mikkel’s whiskers and for a moment he looked remarkably dashing in his trench coat and hat, wind blowing past his pink nose, ruffling his fur, blowing his whiskers askew. Molly looked at him and remembered why she loved him so. He was her mouseman. Life was wonderful she thought.
They followed the path to the edge of the park and the scene that greeted them was beyond their wildest imaginations and probably is beyond your wildest imagination too, but that is the wonderful thing about stories, they can go beyond the wildest imaginations and it is perfectly okay.
The mice and chipmunks, squirrels and rabbits of Strangeville had waited months for this event. They had first heard about it in the spring, when Sophie, Reverend Squirrels daughter wrote her parents from India where she was helping to build a squirrel school for the underprivileged Squirrels that lived in the slums of Delhi. Anyhow on the postcard she sent, written in her tiny squirrel scrawl she told them of what she had seen in the rat village of Darjeeling Rat Heights. It was the most magical, colorful, wonderful thing she had ever laid her tiny black eyes on.
The village of Strangeville gathered that evening in the town hall and consulted together on Sophie’s postcard. Could it be true? Was it possible? Was it real? Could they ever bring such a thing to Strangeville? They decided they must try; so that they might see such a thing in their incredibly short life spans.
So they sent in their application. Each writing essays on why such an event should come to Strangeville. I wonder if you can appreciate just how challenging this would be for the Mole families or even the other mice living in town. I mean, they pretty much have to hit each key on their lap top individually as their finger span is too small to properly type and also because they don’t really have fingers. And in the case of Moles, they are blind which makes typing that much more difficult. Still the town rallied, the creatures sent in their essays, their photographs and a group of teenage squirrels even made a video for Youtube, showing Odding Park and making a squirrel rap about why Strangeville was so deserving of this honour.
After months of waiting they received word back and to their delight and secret surprise, Strangeville had been chosen! It was going to happen the letter wrote, which Robert Rabbit had to read aloud for everyone because rabbits understand Sanskrit and also they are the only ones who can speak loud enough for the town to hear, and without a lisp. The mice and squirrels and chipmunks have lisps because of the retainers they wear to fix their teeth. I mean, who can go around having such large protruding front teeth these days?
So the town celebrated, with fireworks that mostly worked except for the one incident of catching a bush on fire which was expected since the animals all live in the ground and are so tiny, their fireworks could not be expected to go very high.
And now, the day had arrived. Their dreams were being realized.
Molly, Mikkel and Charla stood together linking their tiny furry arms, and smiled at the scene in the park. Finally, it was here, and about to begin, and they were going to get to see it together. They walked over to the booth, to purchase their tickets for the amazing, wonderful, one of a kind, Bombay Cat Circus.
I knew it was going to be a great day, just by the taste of the coffee. I had long-since established that the best coffee only tastes as good as the drinker feels, and, today, nestled on the couch by the fire with the windows frosted over in the morning sun, I felt good. It had already been three days since the blizzard. The power was still out, but this cottage had been built not to need it.
As I drained the cup, the door burst open. A blast of freezing air, a flurry of flakes, and the shadowy outline of a Sasquatch appeared in the frame, grinning broadly. The figure trudged across the room, leaving a trail of snowy footprints, and dumped a load of wood on the hearth to dry in the heat. Shortly, the air warmed, the flakes melted and the Sasquatch removed his numerous layers of woollen clothing to reveal his tousled hair and cold-rosened cheeks. Eitan gratefully reached for the mug I held out to him, billowing steam visible in the sunlight that streamed in from the cloudless, piercing blue sky outside.
Yes, I thought to myself; the coffee tastes good today.
I think people are like colours. I don’t mean their personalities, like a firey red temper or a glowing yellow disposition. I mean how people interact. Your eyes contain cones for seeing colour, but it turns out you have a lot more cones for seeing some colours than others. That’s why red always stands out, and blue doesn’t. In fact, if you fixate on a blue object for long enough, it’ll start to fade into the background. Just like people.
Try it. Go to a party and just watch. The red people will stand out to you right away, that’s what they do. Then you’ll notice the yellows, greens, and purples–they’re the ones that are socializing without drawing their own crowds.
The hard ones to spot are the blues. You have to look carefully. It’s like trying to see what you can’t see, or at least what you’ve been trained to ignore. They may be the hardest to find, but I think the blues are the most interesting. Even though it seems like they’re hiding, they’re usually the ones who have the least to hide. The reds and the yellows are hiding in plain sight, like a benign frog with flashy colours hoping to thwart predators that will mistake it as poisonous. But the blues have no motive to masquerade. Besides, who would want to be the person sitting alone at a party? Blues act the way they do, not because they’re trying to hide who they are, but because they can’t help who they are.
If ever there has been a word more confused than me, I should be happy to make his acquaintance.
I hear many voices speak of the green movement. This is strange to me. I am not going anywhere. I saw a lady with a black grocery bag the other day. On its side was written “I am a green bag.”
‘Are you?’ I thought. ‘My dear compatriot, I think you’re confused. Have you become so passive as to let these big folk call you something you are not? Perhaps you were once green, and then fell into a puddle of oil, and that is why you are now black. Or perhaps the same thing is happening to “green” as happened to “oil”. The purses of the big folk changed the course of what we once were.
There was a time when I was the flowing field, bending in the wind. Evergreen, I was the pine, the only memory of summer amid the winter snows. As the seasons changed, still you saw me. As the rolling ages passed I stood, a bastion of life.
Yesterday I realized that someone had changed my meaning for me. I don’t know who I am exactly, but I know that I’m not me.
Bundled up inside of our hearts are threads of many colours. Pinks and oranges, yellow and fire red, purple, greens to match every shade of leaf you have ever seen and not seen, slate grey and snow white. All of these threads are wound on tiny spools that are set in motion the moment we are born. Slowly they turn their gears in silent revolution and the thread pours out of our mouths and through our finger tips and from the soles of our feet. With each step a thread spins out and joins the others, tying itself into the pattern of our life.
Turquoise is the colour of marriage: its word was created to solve arguments resulting from seeing; it always existed in the inner layers of waves, like an unpolished stone, but once spoken it broke like the first light of day and became the sought-after strip on the horizon of our getaways. We travel far to see this line, often on honeymoons, our plane rides are a sort of mining and we wish that we could somehow peel this strip from the sky, roll it up in our suitcases and spread it out again on the white walls of our living rooms, but it remains where it is. Photographs never seem to keep it: in them there are greens and blues, all beautiful, but this mysterious colour is wrapped in snow. But we have the word, we can say it and it appears now, a sky appears that couldn’t be accessed before and we put the turquoise in rings to remind ourselves at both the beauty of knowing and not knowing.
Here, modest eggplant,
Tasting however the cook wills.
Over there, aubergine.
Conversation begins unevenly
Voices start and trail off
Themes are tentatively suggested
Only to float away like the steam
Billowing from dark roast coffee
Studied silences are many
Typically broken by two desperate
Souls who speak simultaneously
Than stop in a fit of giggles
Before a spark ignites
And the conversation moves
Progressing briskly, wit crackling
Becoming crisper and more cutting
Volume increases, laughter bubbles over
Than explodes, filling the room
Heads turn towards the table
Fix their gaze on the guffawing group
Those sitting in the corner arm chairs
Long for such cheerful company
Students sitting at the desks
Yearn for a release from essay-writing
As the coffeeshop gets close to closing
The conversation takes on a structure
Norms and hierarchies emerge
Subtly sarcastic comments
Need to be outdone by caustic creations
Sweetly self-deprecating stories
Are overtaken by crude confessions
Words are now spoken at a frenzied pace
Tumbling out of unrestrained mouths
Out of a desire for mirth
A yearning for levity
In a dull, numb world
Then silence again.
A heart has been hurt.
But no one will vocalize it.
A shifty uneasiness emerges.
The friends part their ways.
And some begin to talk
Bemoaning certain comments
Made by particular people
Some even confide in others
Outside of the circle
Who make sweeping comments
With no bearing on the situation
Some of the friends see each other again
But the bonds between them are weaker
Milling about in a state of confusion
Feelings of affection are fleeting
And easily eclipsed by irritation
For behaviors they didn’t even notice before
Than the quicker tempo of urban life
Makes it easy for the group to dissolve