Last week I had a long chat, while strolling along the
Willamette, with an American woman who resides in Europe. She adores being in wild nature, and
Europeans have done an impressive job of reducing wild nature to a few tiny
dots. Most Europeans have never
experienced healthy wildness. This is
sad. She wants to come home.
Yesterday, the good pastor Clark dropped by my tent in
Facebookland with a bottle of gin and a George Monbiot essay, Ghost Psyche. The essay was an excerpt from his new book, Feral,
which explores the notion of rewilding. Monbiot
lives in Wales, a land where most of wild nature has been erased. In the essay, he described having strange
sensations whilst carrying the warm corpse of a Chinese deer — powerful
feelings from the ancient spirit of wildness that is buried somewhere in his
psyche.
Most modern folks seem to be disconnected from nature, a
great tragedy. Do wordsmiths have the
power to break this curse? I sense that
nature is a far better spell breaker than books. Anyway, reading Monbiot triggered a
flashback. In the autumn of 1982, I was
living in an old farmhouse about eight miles west of Kalamazoo. The following are the words of a 30-year-old
man, having an exciting experience — a sweet memory.
Desolation Acres
Intense, intense, intense!
These are wild times. Desolation
Acres is about to lift off and fly into a new and strange reality. Christ!
I've barely slept in the last two days.
The powers that roam the land have come here for a gathering. Wizards fill the sky. Magic is everywhere. The moon is as full as my heart. Almost.
The leaves are just going mad in a visual hurricane of
color. The sumac is turning red, the
sassafras is bright orange and yellow, as are the maples. The apple trees are turning golden, as is the
giant hickory tree, which has been here since the beginning of time.
The day is a spectral explosion, and the night is a precious
moon land. The hunter's moon. In pagan times, it was the “blot monat” — the
blood moon. A time for slaughtering
animals for winter food.
The sun has set on another day. I sit in its afterglow. Feathery clouds swirl on the horizon. They alone still breathing in the sunbeams,
flushed hot and pink. Vivid gashes
against a soft pale blue-purple background.
The owls are coming out for the nightly hunt.
The air is moving slowly now.
Resting. Who? It has the smell of cider. The orchard behind the house was not picked
this year. Nor last. Tons of apples lie on the ground, brown and
split. It's the death season. All the summer's fruit rotting in the
weeds. Who?
The wisp clouds are turning purple.
Daylight makes its last stand.
It's losing too. Dying. Who?
Beyond the orchard is a vineyard. It was not picked this year. Nor last.
Its fruit is rotting. Dying on
the vine. Who?
The leaves will soon be dropping to the ground. Why must summer end? Why does the fruit lie untouched? Why am I alone tonight? Who? “Who?” — me,
you noisy owl!
It's the death season.
Life retreats in fear. A piercing
visual scream. It's over. The sun grows ever weaker. The cold nights rip and tear with sharp
teeth. Green is just a memory now. A ghost.
Summer is dead and rotting. King
Frost blows over the land with his sharp crystal spear and his cold snowy
breath.
A bug is stiffly walking across the sidewalk. He can't outrun the winter. He may get a hundred yards, but he'll never
make it to Miami. He'll die here. Like everything else. Will I?
Will death take me too? Will I
turn yellow and orange and fall to the ground?
Will I lie in the weeds, brown, split, and rotting? Eventually.
It's an old farm. The
ground is soaked with blood and sweat, and the air is full of spirits. The new mother with the hot babe at her
breast, wheezing old ladies, plump-handed farmers. These walls have seen many lives come and
go. Passionate love-making, the screams
of childbirth, infants growing into young men and women, and by the warm hearth
rests the faithful dog, Death.
It's my turn now to sit here and contemplate life. To gaze at the stars, along with unseen
thousands of other dreamers. It's my
turn to dream. To paint the blank future
with vivid fantasies. It's my turn to be
lonely tonight. It's been my turn for
loneliness for far too long. Loners
write the great painful poems, the wet-eyed ballads, they paint the wild
strange pictures that you never forget.
Yesterday, I was walking through the fields looking at the
leaves. There was a rustle in the weeds
and out burst a good-sized doe. She
sprinted into the woods. As I was
watching her, I heard another rustle to my right. It was a big buck. I'm sure he was taller than I am. His antlers were three feet across.
I was spell bound. My
mind went into slow motion as I watched him gracefully hurdle the vine
rows. He moved in high powerful arcs
with the grace and precision of a ballet dancer. His white tail had long hair. As he flew through the brush, it waved
good-bye to me. I watched him,
entranced. It was magic. All that power and wildness in such flowing
motion.
That beautiful creature belongs to this land much more than I
do. His descendants were here long
before this farm. Before the
British. Before the French. Before the Indians. Back when this land was a virgin forest. Roving packs of hungry wolves filled the
night air with loud and frightening songs.
Bears and big cats were here too.
The deer will be here after man is gone.
I admire their endurance.
The deer have been blessed with strong legs and sharp
minds. They've never been tamed. They don't graze on chemical feeds in the farmyard. Absolutely wild. They live on apples, grapes, grass, moss, and
whatever else they can find. They're
pure. They live totally off the
land. This is their land. They have always been here. I admire their purity, I admire their beauty,
I admire their strength.
As I watched this huge beauty dance through the vineyard, I
had a spiritual experience. I felt the
warm holiness of this animal. I felt as
though I was sort of a half brother to him.
His wildness called to my wildness.
The deer-spirit sang to me. My
wild man heard him. Come run with me
through the fields wild man. Chase me
with sharp sticks you slow-footed furless troll. You'll never catch me, but let's dance the
dance of the hunt.
For a few moments, as I stood there watching eternal
wildness, so free, so alive, so pure — my civilized man completely disappeared. I was totally free and wild. Sizzling emotions boiled through my body
cleansing and purifying me. I was at one
with the spirit and energy of the planet.
I was the life force, and the life force was me. The deer and I were one. Fury and wildness. Wotan.
Wires were crossed in my mind, and I ceased being
civilized. The wild man has an intense
life energy. Survive! Eat or die.
Make fire or die. Build shelter
or die. Kill or die. Life is a tightrope walk over the gaping jaws
of death. Forever on the brink. No beer bellies or flabby asses. Sharp eyes, sharp ears, sharp noses, and
strong.
And then I heard gunshots.
I walked to the field where the sounds had come from. I looked around and noticed a very red bush
on the north side of the opening. I
walked toward it and stopped. I looked
down in horror to see a patch of blood-smeared grass and a pile of shiny red
organs and grey intestines. Nearby was
the furry white tail.
My stomach dropped. I
was furious. What sacrilege. Some damned idiot geek had in a moment
destroyed something very sacred. One
less wild and free energy on the planet.
It wasn't even hunting season yet.
I carried the heart back to the farm.
I couldn't let it rot in the weeds.
I couldn't let it be wasted.
What a wild smell! It
filled the kitchen, it exploded in my head, it soaked into my skin like a
tattoo, indelible, permanent. I washed
the heart and the sink turned bright red.
It was a big heart, bigger than my own.
I was awed. I felt small. A weakling. I waited for it to cook.
The oven did not tame the smell of the wild. I cut off a piece and put it in my
mouth. Wild. His odor permeates my essence, his flavor fills
my mouth, and his heart and I are one. I
was off again to the wilderness.
Howling, yelping, wide-eyed, fierce, and strong. One with the wild. One with the free. I've eaten the heart of the Forest King.
My civilization has received a serious wound. It was the dominant force in me, and there it
sits bleeding in the corner, confused.
It doesn't understand wildness.
It never has. Society will no
longer be my home. I can't go back. I've been broken. My wildness has been ripped free from deep
inside. I've felt it surging through my
veins. Electrifying me. I've broken the mystery. I now know the truth. I ride on the night winds with my
ancestors. They're so happy I've
returned.
Join us.
2 comments:
Such passion, such intensity! A moving evocation of the primal wildness found at our core, even though it has been repressed by millennia of humanity's efforts to separate itself from wild nature. Our instinctual wildness seems nearly extinct along with the myriad beings and places we are losing in this human-caused Sixth Great Extinction.
You give me hope that, as industrial civilization collapses and we are forced to reconnect, that this instinctual wildness in our soul can be recovered.
Beautiful writing, Rick. Thank you.
Unknown - thanks!
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