30 May 2017

Frog Fragment

I’ve seen more box turtles than frogs. I’ve seen more red-eared turtles than frogs; I’ve had a few as pets. I’ve seen more snappers, sunning themselves, than frogs. I’ve seen more tadpoles than frogs; cute, spunky, lil’ swimmer things. I’ve heard more peepers than frogs.
I cannot recall when I last saw a frog. I believe they’re green, a slimy wet puke-ish washed out green, with spots and bumps, and consort with dragonflies, snails, snakes, and puppy dog’s tails. I’ve rarely seen one anytime.
Now I’ve seen their remnants, the outward ripples of their leap into their water pond and I’ve heard their remnant ker-plunk sound into their water pond when I was a boy. I’ve never gigged. I could’ve never entered the Celebrated Calaveras County Frog Jumping Contest. And I’d never wager on such a gambler’s Jim Smiley fool’s bet, but I’d be amused by the fools who did run such an errand. Can you imagine pouring lead shot down a frog’s gullet? Ooook.
I’d rather sing like a frog, yes, I know, we say they “croak”, flick my tongue like a frog, hear like a frog, or see like a frog; pretty yellow & black eyes; ugly ears though. I think I’d rather pay a guide to learn me to leap like a frog so to catch it; that’d be more absorbing and interesting. But I probably I’d figure I’d catch a cold or flu, or git skeeter bit, or snake bit, or a mouth of cattail I’d have to spit out.
I ate frog legs, in Chinatown, once; in red Chinese characters their remnants were on white menu board on a wall for people who could read ‘em. To me it was just decorative, not meant for my ignorant gwai lo eyes. They tasted well enough, in watery & buttery white sauce, as I recall, like delicate, but white, chicken leg meat.
In fact, frog is more mythology, or fairy tale, nowadays, for me. Aren’t they just farmed now? For French people? That’s why the Brits call ‘em frogs, ya know. And frogs are extinct in wilderness. . . aren’t they? Which is to say, my Angela says she kissed a lot of frogs before she met me. I take this to mean she decided I was gonna be the last frog she kissed.

02 May 2017

Abbess of Wilderness

Bumfuzzled. I’m a smitten puppy man, 66, still a afraid how overwhelming my 12 year old naked and ashamed feeling addicted. I feel spilling over and out and over and my interior smitten-ness acts putting a mink stole around you, "Wear this, put it on, please.", a substitute for how I like my feelings to feel for me for you, soft fur brushing your skin, just putting my past on you. It’s unfair. Stop. I cannot. There’s no “to you” but for parts of a few hours out of a day out of a week for six. Do you sense my feelings' reverbs in the echoes bouncing and reflecting off and fading away from what’s in that not anymore? No? Hush, huuusssh, huuuuusssssh.
I love the you I see and I love the you I hear and I love the you I read and I love your soft quiet voice from within you and I love your you in writers’ words you introduce me into, your passion. And I love your you in your flash of discipline, your “no”, a steely push-back-with-eyes from within through the narrowing open window of your eyes and slightly pursing no lips. I love your you in your courage you do not know yet and I love your you put in your image-I-na-tions. . . hoping. . . documenting … abiding ... still … joyous … come, Lady Abbess of Wilderness. Riding my imagination fueled by words from my beginning I see and hear and taste and dream and inside I’m burning up with desire.
This is the first love letter I’ve ever written, I could’ve written, forgiving and accepting myself, my pathos. This love letter is 66 years old. Early, I was trained to the practice of unforgiving. I was not steeped, the simple or natural way, for words to say what I knew I felt. And why I love what you do - you just love your wilderness - I just love something in the way you are in my I am.