“Thoughts” – I don’t think I was bitten by a deer tick today. Maybe knowledge is power.
Category: Philosophy
“Morton’s Pond” (XIX)
“Sounds” – Another day with Pablo. Listening to him talk to me and listening to me talk to him. I could also hear Bonny and Ditto by the lake. I think they were painting because I could smell the paint. There were large patches of silence between the words they were saying. Or maybe the patches of silence were when I was listening to Pablo or myself talk.
“Blurtso hears a whisper” (XI)
Harlan? said Blurtso. Yes? said Harlan. Do you ever get frightened? Frightened? said Harlan. Yes, said Blurtso. Sometimes, said Harlan. Why? said Blurtso. Well, said Harlan, when you consider how fragile things are–life, love, happiness–and how they’re certain to vanish, and the nothingness that follows, it’s natural to be frightened… but you can still be optimistic. You can? said Blurtso. Sure, said Harlan, we still have a tin of chocolate, and plenty of whipped cream.
“Morton’s Pond” (XVII)
“Tastes” – Thinking about eating. Me eating grass. Clouds eating colors. Sounds eating sounds and ticks eating me… even thoughts eating thoughts. Everything a big circle of eating.
“Morton’s Pond” (XVI)
“Sounds” – My breath. Panting as I propped up the walls of my shelter. I didn’t even hear the train to Concord because I was so focused on building. You can only hear what you happen to be listening to, or else the sound of building ate up the sound of the train.
“Morton’s Pond” (XV)
“Sights”: My home in ruins. Blown to the ground by last night’s storm. No more cracks where the wind made noise. No more shade. No shelter. Just a heap of boards. And the wet ground.
“Morton’s Pond” (XIV)
“Smells” – Rain on the wind. Another storm approaching. And something I don’t recognize. Possibly the smell of a deer tick. But I’ve never smelled a deer tick before, so I can’t be sure. I suppose you can’t be sure of what you’re smelling until you are.
“Morton’s Pond” (XIII)
“Sights”: Sunshine through the clouds. Silver drops on the leaves and ground. Wet tree bark. Mud and bits of leaves on my hooves and ankles. Patches of blue spilled on the lake.
“Morton’s Pond” (XII)
“Sounds”: Rainfall. Cloudburst. I suppose the cloud got so full with all the things it sucked up, it had to spit them out—the sounds, the colors, the smells. The raindrops gathered together when they hit the ground and began to run around making noises and spreading flashes of color. They ran down my nose and flanks and haunches and tail, and found the holes in my shelter I could only hear before. Rain makes it easy to see holes, and it makes silent things reveal their sound. Like the stone outside my shelter that never made a sound until the rain came and all the nooks and crannies sang.
“Morton’s Pond” (XI)
“Sights” – More clouds. Cloud. Covering the lake…
stealing the blue from the water.