Cohabit

Cohabit: (v) to live together

Even though, like any “Frosty poet,” I enjoy a good walk in the woods, there is something that interfaces with me as I feel pine needles under my soles: all the creatures of nature are a little bit frightened of me as a human being because I’m a horrible roommate.

I don’t honor my space. Sometimes I’m late on the rent. I cook up things and leave dishes behind.

And I spread my trash everywhere, assuming that it will be taken care of by either other beings, or time and chance.

So there is a look in the eye of the racoon and a squint from the squirrel that tells me they have no intention of relinquishing their right to the ecosystem. They will fight like hell if I attack their nest or if I suggest they should be ousted from their dens.

There is a palpable defiance mingled with a pleading in their glance.

“Come on, you dumb shit. Can’t you just get along? Can’t you co-habitate with us? Do we have to growl, bite, and escape all of your plans to eliminate our species?”

Nature is kind of pissed with human beings. Why?

  • We decide to blame God, even though there’s a natural order which was put in place billions of years before any of us urped up our first mother’s milk.
  • We are so pretentious.
  • We are so easily offended.
  • We are the Mother-Earth-children of all brattiness.

Because the truth is, we aren’t satisfied with scrunching salmon and terrifying tigers. We start doing it to each other–using a color code. Sometimes it’s based upon evaluating genitalia.

But because we can’t cohabit the Earth with the turtle, we suddenly find ourselves very intolerant of those of our own race–who like to take things a little slower.

 

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Club

Club: (n) an organization dedicated to a particular interest or activity.

It reminds me of Dickie. He was a friend of mine.

Dickie had one thing he was very proud of–he loved to dupe adults. He explained this to me one day. He said the key to tricking grown-ups
was finding out what they wanted, and then discovering a way to do it which was more fun.

For instance, Dickie had a lot of dirt clods in his back yard. We used them to throw at each other, playing war and anticipating what it might be like to be hit with a hand grenade.

Dickie’s mother came out in horror and told us to stop throwing them, saying that we would certainly destroy an eye–or at least sully our pretty shirts.

Dickie waited about thirty minutes, then went in and said to his mother, “Mom, maybe it would be a good idea if we got rid of all that dirt and those dirt clods, and dumped them in the nearby woods.”

She thought it was a grand idea, and even offered some bushel baskets that had recently held apples. So Dickie and I went out, collected dirt clods in the bushel baskets, escaped into the trees–and continued our game.

God, we felt smart.

We had our own little club which we had formed, and was built around the notion that since we were the honorary members, it confirmed that we were more intelligent than others.

From that point on, I have wondered if it is possible to separate oneself off from the mass of humanity into smaller and smaller units and clubs without promoting a sense of superiority and propagating a cloud of bigotry.

Does the Methodist feel superior to the Baptist as he drives by on the way to his church?

Does the white man feel empowered when he passes through the black neighborhood and sticks his nose up at the urban blight, touting that he’s part of the Caucasian Club?

Here’s a frightening and perhaps intimidating thought–we’re all part of one club, and that’s human beings.

Breaking us down any further and insisting that the differences are imperative and unique makes us just about as dumb as a bushel basket of dirt clods.

 

 

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