(This is not the same squirrel, but this is what he looked like.) (© Jim Wilson) (got the image here)
13 November 2008
The cycle has resumed again, as the trees shed their molten leaves. The floor is littered with tiny paper hearts, tiny carcasses, tiny little lives. The branches become bare. The sun slips further off into the sky. The full moon makes people crazy. The winter chill slips down your spine, numbs your hands and lips and teeth. You start to forget the simple things, like boats on a Hungarian lake, or feeding squirrels in Washington DC. I am pretending. I am pretending to be a squirrel. The squirrel is pretending to be a bird. I am pretending to be a squirrel pretending to be a bird. He flattens his tail out against his back, hair spiking up into the air. His tiny, beady eyes look up at the sky and he bird-calls, then stops, waits, clicks twice (as though in impatience, or frustration), and tries again. He never gets a response, but he's always out on that tree branch, trying and trying and trying. And that's just what we do, time after time. When we want something badly enough, when we care about becoming something badly enough, we just fall into that pattern of human stubbornness. But sometimes what we want is an illusion. Sometimes, we have to be satisfied with the way things are. Obviously I, of all people, shouldn't talk. As Adam has said many times in the past, I am insatiable. And there's probably only about two future/life outcomes that would leave me fully, completely satisfied. Or, at least, mostly. And, unfortunately, until I reach those, I'm going to keep trying. Going to keep plowing ahead. Stand on my little branch and make strange sounds and let the whole world think I've gone insane. I'll jump into the chaos, because I am not afraid. Oh little squirrel, you are not a bird. The birds do not try half as hard as you.