The Kangaroo

People make fun of the kangaroo. She’s such a thingamajibbit, with an outsized head and planks for feet that look like sea-going flippers. She looks like a hodgepodge redundant hare, inviting people’s incredulous stare. She inspires derision, even revulsion? Well, if she could talk, she might say something in the following vein:

“You are the one who is really strange, without pelt, without feathers, and coming in so many different colors and shades of skin, it’s hard to know what body you’re in, making our little ’roos afraid. And with your funny hats and unnatural glasses, you think you’re the creature who passes for normal? Give us a break! With umbrellas, cameras, and all sorts of wires on you, you’re the world’s living oddity, nobody else.

Moral: Take a really good look at you—maybe it’s you who ought to be in a zoo.

The Shrew

Eyes still closed, the shrew said to her mate, “Get up, lazy lout, you’re late for foraging. Get going now.”

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, look who’s still dormant while I’ve already gotten up and put on my shirt.”

“Then don’t just stand there, stop the jawing and go. That’s you, always hemming, always hawing. And you are,” she added mysteriously.

“I’m what?” 

“A monkey’s uncle, and grand-uncle of man. That was no slip of speech—you were bragging, and for the worst reason. So much began to go wrong when your side of the family evolved into simian and then humankind. Our side,” she said imperiously, “never would have started that whole disastrous line. Whatever prompted you and yours to go climb a tree?”

“Probably trying to get away from the nagging, scoffing of your whole side,” he murmured.

“I heard that crack,” she cried, “insinuating that I’m a genetic scold? when all I am is a necessary corrector, wearing myself out for your own good. O, I need to lie here, you’re giving me one of my migraines. I’ll die without a fit appreciator or provider. O, you!”

“I didn’t do a word!”

“Listen to yourself, how you get mixed up, the same old jabbering fool, and if I don’t stop you, you’ll go on carping, carping and harping, harping and carping—I don’t know how I bear it! Just go! That’ll stop your incessant nagging torrent.”

Moral: Whenever someone is after you, repeatedly and hotheadedly, too, there’s not the least doubt it’s themselves they are really talking about.

Hong Kong

A sleek vain superior woman of the west, wearing a slit sheath of China gown, moves, carefully coif’d, elegant, in undulant progress to the dining room of a posh Hong Kong restaurant. She cradles a toy poodle at her side and does not ask permission, but assumes her right to do anything she wants anywhere she goes.

Her rich and witful husband, on whose arm she leans ever so lightly, not for support but for the regal manner of it, says, “Choose a table near a waiter,” and they proceed, in pomp and circumstance, to dine. And sure enough, they are served at once, by captain and subalterns, by attentive minions who leave nothing to chance, there at their table laid for kings—and queens. A waiter gestures, indicating the dog, and she grandly hands him her “Poof,” and off he takes it somewhere. Seated on her velvet-cushion chair, she subsides, not especially thrilled but demure, not outwardly delighted but composed, serene in her gown, her jewels, her skin, and surveys the opulent room she is in—opalescent chandeliers, tablecloth, chopsticks, added appurtenances (knives, forks, spoons) for her sterling special appearance.

Sitting erect with prerogative, almost stiff, she says her thank-you’s when hors d’oeuvres are served, with her barest flicker of a smile, condescending to the start of her prolonged meal. Servers bring little dainty dishes—and ginger and coriander, soy sauce, other spices. And pork and veal, and more to come. And always the steaming pure white rice. How nice.

A long ensuing exotic meal, entrée after entrée, and then the piece de résistance, something exceptional to eat, accompanied by lichée nuts, curry powder, sweetmeats and concluding side-plates, and ever-present tea. The husband pays the bill. They rise. She asks for “Poof.” The table-captain arrives, with eyebrows raised: the dog was served with carrots, all buttered and braised.

Moral: In this world of little pets and people, you may not be helped but, finally, severely hampered if you are cuddled and curried and over-pampered.

A Horse and a Sheep

Two paths diverged at an old ranch house, a path to the pasture, a path to the lawn. One day a horse took a turn to the left, instead of the right, and trod over the grass down to a corner where fences met, and hung his head over the cleft. He stood there, head over the rails, just stood there close—and stood—and would be standing there yet, if his owner had not turned him about and brought him out.

The rancher runs cattle and also some sheep. One day a sheep made the same mistake (they don’t all follow their leader) and took that turn down to the fence. He stood there, too, gave his head a shake, then turned all around, and came on back, with no bleating complaint. That sheep didn’t know “couldn’t” and didn’t know “can’t.” The horse, which we are inclined to vaunt, was filled with “ain’t” and crammed with “won’t.” (A horse entangled in barbed wire may thrash and eventually expire, his heart gone out when his brain is frayed). No matter: horses are celebrated and sheep are slighted.

Nonetheless, what happened did occur. The rancher himself witnessed the two episodes, recounting them both, close to home. Still, he esteems his horse.

Moral: When did any evidence ever modify preference?

The 800 lb. Gorilla

A great hulking gorilla sits looking at his fingers. He is caged in a zoo, and–no, he was or has been in a cage but now he is in a wide compound, the next stage after the cell, a spacious improvement all the way around, but, still, only a more expansive lock-up.

He is slouched there, maybe in gorilla recall of past times. Other gorillas have tried to rouse him; some touch, pet, tickle, pat, fan him, poke him. But he is not amused, only, for a long while now, sunk, confused, in a haze of almost welcome gloom, leaving no room for present camaraderie, only the stubborn desire to be all by himself. Sometimes a particularly smart or sensitive animal knows what the story is, and in that knowledge is sealed off alone, depressed, apart, roused and cheered by none.

He knows that he is in prison and for no reason he can recall, and it shrivels his heart, and only the old—what was it?—freedom can avail. There is no glory in simply larger quarters, it is still jail. You can call a zoo something else, a vital protective open space, keeping wild endangered animals from harm as on a grand nurturing enhancing farm, but some of them know better, they know they are confined anyhow, and they proceed slowly but surely to lose their mind.

This one here who lingers in his corner, counting or probably just watching his fingers, has been for a long time now inside himself, locked in, reveried, hiding himself, quite done, quite gone.

Moral: When people are guilty in doing what they would, they always say it’s for the others’ good.

The Man Himself

Mr. Jesse Bier

Since last summer (2012) I've had the pleasure of getting to know Professor Emeritus Jesse Bier. We started up a professional relationship while I assisted him in preparing his novella, The Cannibal, for publication.

Over the course of our work together, I've become captivated by his gentlemanly demeanor, his no non-sense candor, and, of course, his literary insights. We've discussed the shifting landscape of American literature, the failure of military leadership since he served. He's shared devastating stories of GI's and intimate moments of his day to day life caring for his wife as she struggles with Alzheimer's. We've chatted about environmental degradation and what exactly makes a joke funny in French. He has given me poems to read and novels to transcribe. Along the way I've met his children, visited his home and brought my friends to meet him.

My time with Professor Bier has been humbling, edifying, and needed.

Through this blog I hope to share some of our discussions, his reflections, and his work. I've asked some of my writerly friends to contribute as well. We meet regularly at the local bagel joint to talk about writing and the world at large. His is a perspective I think my generation could grow from. And, hell, maybe it goes past that. Maybe we all need a little Jesse Bier.