Mabel’s Book

14 12 2007

Perhaps most intriguing to me was her photo album.  This album contained photographs of every species that, she claimed, had ever lived on earth.  It was a strange album for it was not large, yet we never managed to reach the last photograph for once opened it seemed near infinite.  There were some strange pictures in there.  Creatures unlike anything I had ever imagined and I longed to meet them—though she said I would never in my life for they were extinct millennia, but that I might meet them once I passed through—the socials beyond the door were a nice place to make new acquaintances.  She would say this and then laugh.

Hallucigenia
When I was older, I stumbled upon some of these creatures in an illustration of a time and place called the Burgess Shale.  Mabel said the creatures had existed on our planet at some point in the past, present and/or future—but for some of them, I had trouble believing.  Yet there, in that illustration of a long ago undersea world, crawled these creatures, including Hallucigenia—a species so strange I had never forgotten its image in Mabel’s book.





Yellow Dog: Book of the Door

14 12 2007

This is an early part of my MS in progress:
Thrown back by the essential roar of the earth, we pushed forward toward the door, step by step, to the incredible crevasse that in essence bridged the temporal and the in-temporal. How we might cross was held in the barking of the desert dog—at least, that is how we heard it. This sound breaking. An ant can move a bridge with love just as a human. A dog’s voice is more beautiful than all—that love. We tried to find the love inside ourselves. It was not easy for we each came from a place where love was difficult if not downright dangerous.
She had her throat slit through love.
He his wrists.
One danced on hot coals to the laughter of a crowd by it.
And myself? (yes, I am a self). We can simply say I died of it.
But to survive the desert and cross the crevasse, love was the only possible bridge. We were lucky, for out of the desert came loping a desert dog. Beautiful and lean—your picture books might call her a dingo, or perhaps a coyote, some felt she resembled a wild African dog, some a wolf and even one of us felt she was a brindled pitbull—she came to us because dogs smell need. And respond with unconditional love. We were lucky. She knew.