But Seriously, Think About It

What would you do,
If I was a polar bear,
Slam-dunking you into an igloo,
And it had already happened?

What about that time you thought you were
Being almost killed by aliens
But actually
It was almost breakfast
And everything was normal.

Where do you think people go
When they become someone else?

What if all of your memories and
Sense of self were
stored in your shoes
And whenever you changed shoes,
You would only remember the things
That happened with those shoes on,
And if you wore someone else's shoes...
And the only times you remember having sex were...

What if death happens just like we think it does
When we think without religion or anything
Except you never stop being conscious,
And it's actually mostly okay.

Coyote at the Reins

Hello Possum Readers,

As the cold approaches I have to devote more time to gathering food and warmth, so I've decided to hand over this space to a few animal pals. This one's from a coyote I know. Stay open and warm-

The Perfect Rabbit

She came over, a rabbit, brown fur standing up on end- not out of fear, it added to her perfection. It was all perfect, partly because everything is perfect, and partly because my fangs seemed to grow blunt, like I wouldn’t need them anymore. Like my vibrations would spread around the world and no one would need their fangs anymore. An end to the true predator. It would flatten into legend, and the legend would travel from the front of the collective memory all the way to the back. Forgotten as much as anything is forgotten.

She was that kind of rabbit.

But I worried. I wanted this to be my perfection. What if anyone watching her stand two steps in front of the doorway- her rabbit eyes wide but not surprised, near-closed but not sleepy, removing her coat- what if anyone would feel so perfect. Perhaps. But perhaps their perfection takes a different form. Perhaps that is the true difference between souls: where they are at their apex. It’s obvious when you find it. I knew this was mine the moment I saw her at the door. My and only my exact perfection.

Loving 1's

Possum's trick for removing old miseries.

This works for miseries that have not flowed on by because they are extremely thick. More experimenting will have to be done with jagged miseries.

1) See the misery before you in its clogged vein.

2) Expand your consciousness to include the possibility that you are a dragon.

3) Be a dragon.

4) Think now porcupine- the misery is THICK. To make it go away you have to THIN it! What thins old miseries is information. Bright, silvery, positive information. Imagine it pouring out of your mouth like fire, perhaps while you are flying. Feel free to put on some appriopriate music- a possum should never be artless. Bombard the misery with cascades of quick information whisked along with positive expectation. This possum imagines it as a string of 1's flying out of his dragon mouth.

5) Watch the misery flow away. Thank it dearly and wish it farewell.

Possums treat binary as a minor god. Not so much with fear and reverence- merely with a nod to the power to all the information that can be translated into it.

We possums like to think that our philosophy has something for everyone, but possums are only possums, and they can never know for sure what goes on in the dragonfly's head.

To The Possum Above and Forward

Been thinking tonight from a big blue chair, and big blue chairs are where I do my best thinking.

I go through extended periods of reminiscence that manifests itself in various ways. Lately it's been of my possum adolescense. Tonight I thought about the days when I regrew my Awesome Possum Shell. I was full of zingers. Sometimes I would toss something into the air, just so I could zing it down. Zinging made the world go round, with its taps to the side of the world. This was very handy, because previously the world had slowed down and I got sick from backwards inertia. I like the world's pace to maintain a healthy clop (It was decided a while back by the PEOPLE WHO ARE RIGHT to make references to the delightful noise made by horse's hooves the only recognized form of speed measurement).

Perhaps this memo could be a letter to the me who is nostalgicizing about this me right now. It's not right now for me, but I suspect it's right now for you (assuming the future hasn't smeared our current "concept of time" dollop (the concept of time has roughly the same consistency and texture of sour cream)). In a slight diagonal way, your right now is also my right now for as I write I feel connected to you energetically. How is me yournow? I feel a kind of forward nostalgia. It goes from behind me diagonally forward and up, lifting up the top of the hair on the back of my head. Most nostalgia makes me feel pulled heavily into time's river (true time, you may have noticed, is much less viscous than its concept, closer resembling water in its consistency and nature). This nostalgia lifts me up and forward, like the distance of my focus is equally spatial and temporal. Like this me I write to may be a ways in the future, or he may be here in this time now perched above and in front of me.

I'll finish this little missive with an excerpt from a letter sent to thenfriends (some who are also nowfriends), that I stumbled on amidst writing this one. It's from Spring 2001. It's interesting in a sort of NO COINCIDENCES way:

Hey, let's have an SAT party. We can all get together and take the SATs. We can even get an old man to proctor it and say cryptic Madagascarian proverbs that mean death and so much more. Who's with me. Who's with me. Who's with me. Who's with me. Who's wearing my shoe. I've been conversing with flamingoes for days and minutes. I'd love to stay but, I can only assume that my body will soon combust into poisonous gas if I continue at my present altitude. If he could, Vergil would (probably not) remove your arms as if they were hinges on a door. It's been huge my ducklings. Simply magnanimous.
I carry my shoe
And bid you adieu

Back in herenow.

Goodnight you and goodnight me.

Sassafrass Tuesday

No problem.

I controlled the shopping carts.

I chatted with voles and raccoons.

I got a paw length closer to having super powers.

I did my laundry (finally!).

No one will find my secret supplies.

Tuesdays are easy!

Difficult Monday

Hello The Sky-

I love you sky. You are big. You are so big that I can talk to you wherever I am and whenever I am and it's always cool. There's no one else like that. Not for me at least. Everyone is on the phone. Everyone is hissing about God. Everyone is nervously checking their wink portals as often as possible hoping that today is the day when the big wink comes and blinds them forever.

Today was tough. I was slow in the middle. "Be Southern," said a customer/messenger. "Do everything slowly, agree with everything." I did that as much as I could without the square hats getting ruffled. It was the best advice I received all day. I talked to myself quite a bit, but I don't receive things from me, I just am things from me.

Last night I chatted with P-Owl. We knew it was the time for a quick chat on the deeper levels, so that was done, and I am better for it. He described a pattern I fall into that causes me to get caught by birds. I've lost some skin and even had my possum organs pecked at by those loving, doting birds. What's to be done with their beaks? What would I think of them if I could fly without them? Would they still be the archetypal compliment companion? Would they still yin my yang?

I thought about what P-Owl said for much of this tough and tricky Monday. He sees the lines well from up in his tree, but down in the earth the story's a little different, more specific, and we possum's tell it in different words. One can't see too far ahead down here, so we learn General Fear of what is known to hurt. But I must go back. My home was destroyed some years back- golly, coming up on 9- and I ran off in a hurry, taking the biggest pieces I could carry. I salvaged some of it, and got some stuff in the post that looked about right, but to make things right I must return. I must gather. I must build. I must shrink that wrecking ball with my will power and when I'm done, if I like, I may sit in an armchair and use the tiny object to rest my possum feet.

In other terms, the dwelling of which I speak is 4 and I just did some 3 and it makes sense to do things in pairs that add up to 7. If you need details I have some. Not all, but since when do you have all the details? Tonight I passed a gas station that had a little tent called "Detail Island." Nice, eh?

What P-Owl made me realize is that the comfort of the sheetsand blankets only helps the solitary me. If I want to be With I'll have to be open, exposed. No time like the present, possum.

That brings me to you Sky. I may ask for your assistence. Journeys like these are always easier with a friend, and you've been my friend for years and years. Tonight you were particularly beautiful, but I've never seen you ugly. I've never seen trouble extend beyond your vastness.

Toss me some love Sky. Send water down to grow new true pure love in my heart- to erase the scratches and blots on all my future Mondays.

Cinnnnnnamon Roll

Kroner-

A matter of intergalactic importance involves you in a most revealing manner. It involves four elements. The first: your fourth eyelash. The second: a bison herd hiding in Paris. The third: the fact that people who plod endlessly forward in time have no business with this possum. The fourth one is a secret that I can't speak of, but I can quietly say to follow the ampersands.

Kroner, someone's going to make it, and then they'll come back for all of us. You need only light the way. If the way is not lit he will not find us and we will continue to wash in the sea. Go quickly, before the creeping frosting doesn't ooze off of the cinnamon roll and consume us. We must consume it first. We must end its existence for while in this incarnation there is no possible path of the universe other than the cinnamon roll devouring us like a relentless kudzu.

Maybe the unlikely sand idea is true after all. Maybe the patterns are remembered forever by every atom in the universe. Maybe that's what happens. But then again, why are they so limited in the information they can hold? &Good gravy! Their direction is undefinable!&

The cinnamon roll is weak, and I am quite full. Can we leave it till the morning?
But who knows what tasks the morning will bring? If only it would tell me. The future ought to be decipherable- it merely speaks backwards.

The frosting reacts, it doesn't know it will die. When you open your mouth, it thinks you will say "hi."

It seems I have a blog

The more things normalize, the more they go totally crazy.

I just wrote the letter "N" in the title column and this appeared:

No, Angelina, no! Take me back, Angelina, take me back!

So I experimented with all the other letters and got this from "H"

Hawkeye, Put Some Mixed Greens on that for Chrissakes!