We were told the average background color of the universe was turquoise. She said “that’s because a coyote ripped it from the mountains outside Cerrillos. But now they say it’s actually a shade of dark beige, drying mud colored.” It was a glitch in the software, the astronomers said. The coyote was unmoved.
She sits on the floor sorting coupons and roughly clipped articles on herbs and natural remedies. Occasionally she looks down at the hollow of her chest, at the still reddened slash left by the scalpel. “I’ve got no veins left. I hate those damn needles. If they want to poison me, I’ll drink it gladly. Socrates had nothing on me.”
I rub her feet as she slides into the MRI tube, and pull on her toes. “I can pull you out at any time.” I look at my wrist but there is no time in this room, checked at the door. Just the metronomic magnet. As she emerges she grabs my hand, presses it against my chest. I cradle her head and trace the scar across her scalp, trying to touch the missing brain matter, the tumor it nestled, pushing aside the brittle hair. “Lightly toasted,” she whispers with a weak smile. She hates white coats and stethoscopes. “They’re the new morticians.” They take her in small sections. She is a slide collection in the back of my closet, on the pathologists shelf. I want to gather them all and reassemble her. I want her to be a young girl of fifteen again.
Coyotes wander down from the Sandia hills. They gather outside the Santo Domingo Pueblo, sensing the slow seepage of heat from the sun baked adobe. There is no moon. They know each star. They stare into the darkened sky. They see only turquoise.
The abiding Buddha nature of birds is demonstrated by their calm ability to carry on conversations in the presence of interacting humans, who are too often deaf to the sounds in which nature immerses them.
But when we speak to the birds in a crude facsimile of their native chirp, caw and trill, they pause to listen, strain to understand us, wishing only to let us know their thoughts, their love of nature, and just how shocked and disappointed they are at our inability to exercise our stewardship.
I’ve been trying to discover how it is that those inside the beltway elected to office, or working for those who were elected, have all sense of irony (and in some cases. civility) erased.
How else to explain that for many there can be no climate change while the nation they serve is bearing its cost, climatologically and in discourse and diversity, and still they won’t see that baked Alaska is no longer just a dessert at a Party or PAC dinner.
Or to be blind to the fact that their parents or grandparents once stared up at the Lady in the Harbor, that they were the tired and the poor yearning for the freedom they would now so easily deny others, that they and theirs were the invading mob, nonetheless welcomed in the promise of an ever greater land.
Perhaps it is best I never learn for in this world a finely honed sense of irony may be our last, best hope for salvaging our sanity.
Do those, who imagine themselves leaders, or smarter and better than the rest of us, and who deny science, (no, the amassing of money is not a law of physics) plan to take up swimming?
Or will they wait until the bears are at their door, their white coats grayed by the last belches of soggy coal, and then bemoan the fact that their yachts have floated off on the rising seas that now lap at their once beach view feet.
It’s no matter to most of the people of the world who starved to death or died of disease years ago.
It was a Thursday in August when he first noticed it. It was an unusually cool day, not the sort you’d expect in the middle of summer, but he knew the weather was ever more unpredictable. He was certain it hadn’t been there the day before, but he was surprised it was still there the day after, albeit ever so slightly larger. When he asked the elders about it, they merely laughed. “It is what you get for suddenly giving him a bedtime after dark,” his father said, “wait until he discovers the stars.”