Author’s Note: I have always written very quickly. In my early twenties, I worked for a while in a textile mill in South Carolina. I mentioned to a coworker named Herbert how fast I write.
He asked what kind of material I was capable of writing, and I said (perhaps arrogantly) “Anything you want.”
He smiled and said “Can you write me something about ghosts?” About ten or twenty minutes later, I returned with “Herbert’s Ghosts” in my notebook. He was pretty impressed.
He knew that I had written it because he could see me writing in my notebook with a pen from his spot on the floor. And he knew I hadn’t used AI or the internet for help, because this was during the pre-internet era.
That was back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, but they were just itty-bitty baby dinosaurs; it was that long ago.
when you work back-to-back 12 hour graveyard shifts alone in a quiet place where you rarely see anyone for more than a few minutes at a time
your mind goes squinty
you become one with sound
now, I feel the sounds of the traffic going by
I taste the sound of the planes coming and going from the airport
when these die down, I smell the sound of the leaves falling from the October branches
I hear coyotes yipping in the underbrush
but I don’t ever hear the bunnies
the bunnies are too quiet (so they can avoid the coyotes)
but I see them
after a while, they come to trust me as much as a wild bunny ever trusts anything that isn’t another bunny
as I make my patrols, and I stumble onto one, really close by, they no longer immediately dart away
now, they just sit there⠀ and munch on their grass, ⠀ as long as I don’t get too close
it’s more than just that freezing in place defense mechanism
they do that when anyone comes near, but it lasts only until you get within a dozen or so feet of them, and then they’re off like lightning
but when they allow you to come much closer, it’s special
or so I tell myself, to pass the time
I tell myself that it’s high praise, and I appreciate it
I appreciate it far more than most of the compliments I’ve ever received from people
for those little rabbits to just sit there, only three or four feet away from me, they have to know that I’m not going to suddenly lunge at them, try to eat them
when a person compliments me, I ask myself the same question,
“are they gonna try to eat me?”
the answer is usually yes
but the bunnies, they know me now
I see them, and as mean and cantankerous as I can sometimes be, as misanthropic and as nihilistic as I frequently feel, when I see a bunny, I still instantly, instinctively, turn into a four-year-old child
I begin talking like a fucking idiot, “hewo, widdle bunny wabbit. “you doin’ bunny stuff?”
a human, I’m instantly asking myself, “am I gonna have to “punch this motherfucker “in the mouth? “or is he just lost?”
but the bunnies can do no wrong by me
any person I see, I remain professional and friendly (enough)
but inside, I’m going cold and still, weighing what I think this particular coyote’s motives are
I sometimes deal with meth heads, homeless people, severely mentally unstable people, people who are just lost
I helped a guy get home had to call the police to come get him because he could only tell me his first and last name, didn’t even know his address
he referred to himself as “mentally incompetent” and apparently, he had wandered away from home when they weren’t looking (if they bothered to look) he hopped on the bus and got all the way out here wearing just shorts, a t-shirt, socks, and sneakers
I don’t know what his mental health diagnosis was, probably severely autistic, like Raymond Babbitt in the movie Rain Man I just know that he is someone who requires 24/7 looking after he never should have been out here with me and the coyotes in the cold
I still see his face ⠀ clearly in my mind, ⠀ I hear his voice ⠀ in the October leaves ⠀ ⠀ I still see the face of that cop who I turned custody of him over to, a big Samoan cop, looked like it was his first (or last) call of his shift, because he was beat, dead tired
it was something that I got to feel halfway good about
much better than just telling meth heads they can’t hang out here
better than telling homeless people, “hey, you can finish “collecting cans and bottles from “the dumpster. “I won’t call the police on you. “But you gotta pick up that “trash you threw on the ground.”
so far, they’ve all considered that a pretty good deal and they picked up after themselves
that’s a brutal existence
everyone is a predator when you’re dumpster diving for plastic bottles and aluminum cans
anyway, in the dark, the crisp leaves falling off the October trees, they sound loud, like intruders climbing over the fence
like hordes of barbarian invaders
and yet, you never hear the bunnies
you only see them
I imagine the older ones telling the younger ones,
“he’s okay. he won’t eat you. “he’s just the watchman. “he just sits in the dark over there “and reads, writes his poetry, “and plays that stick thing “they call a guitar. “he’s harmless.”
“besides,⠀ “he’s too sad and angry ⠀ “to chase us. ⠀ “he just chases words⠀ “and sounds.”
“but just the same, “don’t get too close. “he’s still a human, “and those things are “way more dangerous “than coyotes.”
Today, to be Surrounded by allies, To be a part of the group, The tribe, the crowd, The community, the cool kids,
You have to be Even more willing To swallow Shovelfuls of horseshit Than you did In the past
There was always A certain amount of Necessary conformity In being part of a Group of any kind
Even to have friends, You had to kind of Dance around Their sensitive spots, Tell them what they Wanted to hear
Otherwise, You might as well be A monk, living in a cave On a mountaintop
And in the past, This was reasonably Okay
Because friends and groups Often brought with them Good times, safety, opportunities, Counsel that was Worth more than the Toilet paper sticking to The bottom of that guy’s shoe As he walks out of the john
But today, It’s far wiser To avoid any crowd
Any gathering Of more than perhaps Three to five people
Is probably already Contaminated With at least one person Who is so incredibly stupid That they’ll get you killed Or locked up Or they’ll do some sort of Serious damage To your reputation, Your mental health, Or something
Most people think the term Loose cannon Has something to do with Cops who don’t follow the rules But still get the job done
We can thank 1980s movies For that
But it really refers to The cannons on old ships
Those things weighed Anywhere from half a ton To four tons
And if they weren’t Properly secured, Chained in place on the deck, The slightest bad weather Could send these huge Behemoth hunks of iron Tear-assing all over the ship
They’d crush a man to death Instantly, like a grape
They’d smash through The hull of the vessel And sink it
In 1545, there was An English carrack Called the Mary Rose
A rose was the Tudor emblem
It was Henry VIII’s flagship, Named after his favorite sister, Mary Tudor, Queen of France
She weighed 700-800 tons, Altogether;
The ship, that is, Not Mary Tudor, Queen of France
That carrack had 91 guns onboard, 8 ½ to 12 feet long, Weighing anywhere from 3,000 to 6,000 pounds each
The Mary Rose was hit by A sudden squall
Many, if not all, of the guns On one side of the ship Flipped over and went Careening into the Other side of it
It went down into the ⠀ Bubbling depths Along with 400-700 Soon-to-be-dead men
That’s what it means To call someone A loose cannon
And that’s basically what Most people are In the modern world
They’re heavy, Dull as iron, Explosive, And not moored to Anything stable
They don’t have the Sense to lash down the Heavy artillery During heavy weather
They only care about Their freedoms,⠀ Their autonomy,⠀ Their right to roll around⠀ On the floor like babies ⠀ However they want, Whenever they want, Wherever they want
And they care nothing About whether or not they will Get you hurt in the process
Regardless of what they say; It’s their actions that do the Real talking
They might Seem secure At the moment
But that’ll change, The moment you hit a little Rough weather
No,
Today, In pretty much every Conceivable way,
Unless you have A really solid crew Of a half-dozen men Or less
Sifu would make us do things like Get into horse stance With heavy dumbbells In each hand
He would casually walk over To the stereo and put on A Steely Dan song, One of the long ones, Like “Bodhisattva”
We had to do curls in this position Until the song was finished
Four minutes and fifty seconds Of pure agony
When I took Muay Thai kickboxing (I was training under my brother), We had to do fireman carries Of other students over our shoulders
Testing for my arm band (Kind of like a belt in Karate) I did classes four times that week, In Muay Thai and Jiu Jitsu,
Plus two private lessons with Kru
Then, on the night of the test, We did close to a hundred pushups, As well as burpees, wall-sits, and Other sadomasochistic insanity
And after all that, Only then Did we take our tests
Sparring against Other students, and Each of the instructors
We walked through fire
You sharpen steel Against stone
Some understand The rigors of training,
The years of martial arts or
The endless struggle Of bootcamp
Pushing Exerting Moving further Than you believed You were capable of going
And then, there are those who Pitch a fit if you ask them To take out the trash Or wake up a half-hour Earlier than usual
II.
Unless you have worked all day In a field, or grown a vegetable garden,
Then you do not understand Where food comes from
Unless you have tied your own Fishing line, baited the hook yourself With a live, wriggling minnow, Worm, or cricket, Caught the fish, Scaled it, chopped the head off, Gutted it, and cooked it yourself,
You cannot say that you Know how to provide food
Unless you have crawled Out of bed at 3 or 4 am, Put on long johns, Several pairs of socks, and other Heavy winter gear, Trudged out into the Dense bramble and thorns Of the woods, Climbed up into a tree stand, Sat there motionless and Absolutely quiet For the entire day, Stared blearily through the twilight fog At the deer who came out to forage, Aimed, fired, climbed down, Dragged that dead deer through the dense Thorns, branches, and brambles, Loaded it up into the truck, Taken it home, Hooked up the carcass to a hoist winch, Raised it high up in the air, cutting it open Spilling the entrails all over the ground, Skinning it, harvesting the meat, then you Stored the meat and Disposed of the guts, and then you Cooked that meat yourself…
You mustnot allow yourself To believe that you are a hunter
Unless you have been in At least one fight In which you could have Literally died, Not just metaphorically,
You are not a warrior
IV.
Unless your stack of handwritten journals Reaches up to your ankle Or higher,
You are not self-aware
Unless the stack of Books that you’ve read (Not merely purchased, but read) About personal growth and Communication skills and Emotional regulation Reaches all the way up To your knees Or higher
Then don’t you dare ever say That you’re “doing the work”
Unless you can move Through an entire day Without speaking a single word To anyone, for any reason, And do so without complaint
Don’t say that you possess Discipline or self-control
V.
Some people understand What it truly means
To push the envelope To exert themselves beyond exhaustion To grow farther and faster Than they ever believed They were capable of growing
And then, there are those who Scream or pout If you challenge them To stop telling Childish lies
Or you ask them For a sincere Apology
People today Are soft, Spongy, and Weak
On every level
Physically, Mentally, Spiritually, Emotionally
Modern technology And a society of laws Protects them From every type of Minor discomfort
But the True world, ⠀ The one that is Underneath The polite veneer…
