While many actors have portrayed it, people fear it in the woods. He had been pursued by a bear in real life. Making him the charter member in his club of one. He’d heard, in passing, schoolgirls say save the turtles. Only he, that he knew of, had stopped in the middle of traffic on a hot city street to rescue a turtle and carried it through the heat wave to the shade in the ferns by the water. The turtle pissed on him when he picked it up, turtles.
He walked as a stranger smelling of Tiger Balm and Kama Sutra oil. He didn’t shower much. He carried an empty coconut cup with a bent metal straw he had picked up somewhere on an island he couldn’t name. A singed leaf of sage sat nestled in his beard. It had flown up, as an ember the night before from his campfire, and nestled deep within the curly mess of his beard shrub. It had burrowed a little black cave that left a mark amongst his auburn brambles. His body sashayed down the sidewalk, a tanned piece of shipping rope swinging in the ocean breeze. His eyes stared out, just off the shore of the horizon. If the rain was coming down, he cleared his mind and could pass through the water without getting wet, it worked. It is a matter of presence without thought.
At night, he slept in a hammock in a well-hidden campsite among the old growth in a local park. He kept his fire hours discreet and looked like any other left leaning, well to do local when he strolled out of the park mid-morning. He had been there, from season to season, without worry.
He hadn’t watched television or looked at one directly for many years. He often walked the streets at night. He would see the light reflection on the walls and ceiling of the suburban houses. The frantic pace and meter of the light was torture, and he would have to look away. Only to find the next window across the street reflecting the same mind-numbing pattern. It was worse on Sunday nights in the fall. His mind lived some six feet above his brain, it left him feeling watched and pestered. He had exceptional abilities when it came to self-reflection and an unnerving knack at guessing what might be around the corner. He was often bemused in hindsight.
He would visit the old community center for snacks. The oak floors were well worn under heavy varnish. The fireplace loomed heavy and stayed at the end of the room. He found some cookies, still hot, and enjoyed them with some cold whole milk.
He was discussing apples with a city worker in the park one day. Line up four different types of apples together, clear your mind, and start taking them in. Have a discussion and hear what the apples have to tell you. Did they come from high on a mountain hill? Was it a drought year? Can you feel the hands of the migrant who picked it in the sun?
This annoyed the worker, who took his rake and hurried away. It isn’t just about apples. Apples are a great place to start. They feel the force of gravity, but only give in once. It’s about expanding your mind and being open to receiving what the world is telling you, whether it be a fruit or whatever might fall in your lap. He spent all this time hearing only to finally listen. He could finally understand what the world was telling him.
He liked to sit at the end of the dock and listen to the rumble of the expansion joints in the floating bridge stretching out across the water. At times, he was just a shadow of himself on a cloudy day. He had lost track of time in his thoughts, his feet had slipped off the end of the dock into the lake, his boots filling with water.
DoubleSpeak 