The Birth of God, a story

April 3. 2006 5:00 am
Some thoughts, rather meandering, about the oligarchical societies man has constructed and why. And other non-interlaced thoughts.

Christ Our Beloved Pastor

It should surprise us little to realize how appropriate the symbol of the Christ figure is the shepherd leading his flock — for us who live and follow in the circle of the good life — the ultimate and unattainable apex and pinnacle of the most desirous form of life in the world: a life where you are never cold, never hungry, never in any need, where you are adored and loved and waited on by adoring servants and the huge public of the little-haves, the medium haves, the no haves, the rich haves, the powerful-haves, the hated and those at the pinnacle of the most desirous life in the world: Royalty. And under this most of us are like sheep. Especially in the present day and in a lot of the world where hypocrisy has become more important than truth and freedom, where the call of "Give me liberty or give me death", is now "Give me a BMW and a comfortable life to a ripe old age ending in a luxurious nursing home, my every demand met and then let me be buried in a chrome stainless steel coffin so the bugs and spiders don't ruin my hair." The leader of the flock is always the first one to get killed, because he is the only one that is visible, him and the herders on the outside — the rest of us sheep want a comfortable life above all other things, the protection of our property next and to hell with the rest for it is too daunting and too powerful to stand up to; and don't be a fool. Hide away like a lamb and no one will ever notice you. And only God can listen to your thoughts. And yes, sometimes, even the regular sheep have to tell someone, the priest or the shrink how they really feel. But now it is very dangerous. We've all seen those movies about communism and nazis and how everyone hid away in silence while their neighbors were being arrested. So the sheep yearn for the "singular" life, the most protected life, the "good life". Does it really matter to me that Exxon-Mobil charged me $3.50 a gallon for gas last summer and then reported that it had "gross-ed" it's biggest profit ever of over 31 billion dollars! And the sheep don't even bleat. And their so called leaders or government doesn't bat an eye, since most of them are sitting their overfed fat asses on leather chairs that the fat corporations have bought for them.

Ah, Royalty. The paradigm and metaphor for the way in which not only we humans live, but as also represented in the animal kingdom by the "leader of the pack", the chief dog, the male lion, the leader of the Pride, who when he can no longer fend off and fight off the younger male lions who all want to take over the pride and possess all the females and have the weaker younger males as his adoring followers and court lackeys, must leave the pride, beaten and toothless and old and despised for weakness and loneliness and being cut off and abandoned, and depleted of his semen and muscle falls prey to the hyenas and the jackals, the ultimate nightmare death for us all: the crazed giggling and laughing of these wild dogs who tear apart the weak and the old — we have these same in our human world, the serial voracious killer eaters, or the armies of our tribal enemies, our religious persecutors, our states attorneys, our judicial system, whatever it is that threatens us at all times with this most horrible hell of all: old, sick, young, weak, undefended and unprotected by the gated communities that are the vision of the apex of human society — the Royal castles with its guards in fine red uniform. The Queen in her Royal bed sleeping soundly and for as long as she wishes with no threats — why do you think that the whole world gasped to learn one morning that an intruder had managed to break into Windsor Castle and make it to the bedroom of the sleeping Queen, the sanctum of sanctums! How frightening and threatening to all of us who are weaker and less privileged.

We as humans use everything around us to support the idea of the pyramid in life, or the circle at the center of which sits the fabulous virgin queen, festooned in diamonds and rare furs, like the most sought after and rarest butterfly whose every beat of the wing is heard all over the world, on dark and cold unfriendly nights: because to get to her you have to go through a lot of circles of protection and policing. You cannot have that life — we call it the lottery prize of the semen. We justify that this is the only way to live that is natural and good and all, because it is what God created (remember the divine right of Kings?). God who is the supreme of all because there is no one above him. He is immortal and undying and beyond any needs and wants of mere mortals and the creatures of nature's scheme of birth and rebirth and death and reincarnation or whatever metaphor we take to heart in our march through life to the grave.

Why do we have animals in our lives? Why are we crazy enough to have cats and dogs, who in the western industrialized world, live softer cozier, more contented lives than most humans in the third world. The pets are less despised and greatly loved and bathed and fed and kept from cold and rain — unlike the millions of poor children dying by the thousands in the streets and deserts of the world from cruelty and hunger and thirst and every other ill that plagues all living things. Someone said that with animals it is all about domination, nothing more and nothing less. It is the survival theory of the species — the most dominant has it all and the others in pecking order have less and less. Our animals reinforce the paradigm of the King because we believe and see all the time the way nature works, even in our concrete cities. Yesterday I went to a dog park in a park in Chicago (where by the way are now being called DFA's — dog friendly areas — and where in order to enter with your dog you must have a special city tag to bring in your dog or you can be fined $500! The tag might cost you over a $100 depending on the state of your dogs shots, and whether he's had his stool sample checked and approved by your vet! What! Did the veterinarian lobby coerce city hall into this bull — there goes the walking enjoyment of the pets of the poor! Indeed in the Chicago area to get into some DFA's you have to pay an annual fee of around $65!) — I am meandering a lot, my head is very full of everything I want to talk about: so the dogs in the dog park — my young male Jack Russell and another 7 month old terrier were chasing and running and trying to hump each other (mine is fixed): Ah, dogs and domination! Not much different than two human males and domination. Ok so we have all these pets to keep us in touch with nature, reduce our anxiety and show us that the things in life are not that important, even though we never really believe that! What dog really cares whether he lives in a mansion or not?
Whether his owner looks good or not? Whether or not his owner smells bad or not, the smellier the better! Of course as long as the dog gets enough to eat he really doesn't care where you live, for he is an instinctual animal and kind of an example for many of us who want to live the natural, instinctual way. But most importantly, we are being reminded constantly that domination is the natural metaphor for all life. The monarchical, oligarchical paradigm holds for every living thing, and for many above all at the top is the unseen, unproved, unknown Supreme Being (well not being because "he" can never become un-being) — the smartest most intelligent designer of us all!

This is not a paradigm that is easily disposed of because it is in our very genetic structure: everything we believe and learn and know comes from the idea of the ONE AND THE ONLY ONE that gave creation to everything else: the big bang being the first and central force of all knowledge and desire. Everything in our lives on a minute by minute basis supports the pyramid symbol: the floating eye at the apex. When I was quite young I read a book that profoundly influenced me. Called Cebes Pinax, or Tablet in English, it was written by a neo-platonist by the name of Cebes, and comes to us I think from the second century A.D. It describes how we all, all living things really but especially humans walk through life in various circles, deceived and misled by all kinds of things. Pinax formed the basis of the metaphor that Dante used in the Divine Comedy. One sees it in Jain symbols: the embedded circles that lead to enlightenment at the very center where resides the enlightened and perfect one, the Buddha. Our religion, our fabric of life instant by instant is based on this metaphor. BUT??? where am I going??? God made man unlike any other thing on the face or surface of the created universe: the special traveler, the one who could ponder his own being and consciousness without being trapped ignorantly and in natural inclination or in rutted instinct. We are all the Christs to the lesser leaves and bees and bugs and grains of sand, because we can bring life, creation, or change and death to all other things, though we too are victimized by the uncaring, ignorant, brutal forces outside of our control, such as disease, natural disasters or what have you. And when these great forces come against us and all that we tend, our innumerable flock of the particles of the universe, we are put in our place, because even the center of human achievement and desire is equally affected. So whatever our destiny is we can chalk it up to the acts of nature or the mysterious plan of the great designer. We just want a life of comfort and hopefully nothing bad till we die in comfort and are buried in comfort and leave our offspring in comfort with all the property that we spent our lives acquiring and more importantly protecting. Along with the single One-at-the-top idea is co-joined for humans the idea that property is the absolute necessity for being the one to make the rules. Ok, it was ok for Christ to despise and reject material wealth, but look what happened to him — he gave his life so that we can live the "good life". And the best at the top is the old King thing.

Think on the flea. Isn't it almost the most perfect, powerful and enlightened "being" on our planet — in the same category as the tiny virus that can replicate and mutate itself to cover a continent as large, powerful and great as ours in only eighteen hours, and decimate every living thing. These tiniest creations of nature are in fact the other side of the metaphor we hold so dear: the Princess Diana, the very pinnacle of the desirous life, but, cut down by the viruses", the winds of death and destruction — ultimately unprotected and carried off to Nirvana, or Heaven where she will live in gilded perfection entranced by the eternal harps of angels and the wafts of cherubim on white puffs of feathery comfort, fat, and well fed and in perfect state of happiness. Of course, back to the other side of the metaphor — the opposite of the very thing we as humans strive against every moment of our lives — being sucked into the maelstrom of un-protection — the lonely, toothless, former king of the pride driven away into the teeth of the mad dogs — the other side of the paradigm is grayness and sameness and not "the good life" but the laborious struggling life of the unwashed poor.

As created, we are the only forms of consciousness that we truly know about that can think about all this crazy stuff — the rest of stuff just gets along on being what it is — which is also very desirable to us because it represents the apex of the instinctual life, the accepting life, the life that just IS. No striving among viruses as far as we know to be the Queen. But, the queen of the bees, is that very desirable as an image to us? Yes, she is much bigger and has millions of handsome drones after her, but all she does is give birth to more-ness, while the paradigm of paradigms, the perfection of the world, only gives birth to itself, or to a very limited supply of the semen prize winners.

What I have been thinking about a lot now in my older age, reaching soon sixty-five, almost the bank of the river where we make the last crossing on the ferry boat, is why is everything the way it is? What is God? What is this metaphor of the One, from which radiates all the others that desire to merge with the One? Karl Marx had a vision of man and life that is very threatening to the monarchical metaphor we hold so dear: the dreary grayness of sameness, man as the virus, just fulfilling its chosen role and nothing more — none castles and gated communities ye shall have, but only the same hovel as all the rest, only one kind of car shall ye all drive and available, as Henry Ford said, only in black! Jesus, what kind of vision is this? But the idea of the cooperative, loving human, the helper, the Christ really, is very repugnant to us on a certain level, because it leaves us, like the king of the jungle in the last light of life, unprotected and at the center of the world or of our lives: yes, at the apex of the very thing we are all striving for: the desirable, most beloved, most cared for: all of us as the king, each and every one of us. But what an invidious more than hateful thing that is to the ones who already live out the monarchical metaphor. They have taken every instance of this metaphoric perfection found among the race and converted it into the actual concrete monarchical eidos: Jesus is now the Pope-King in the Vatican. Only he has the telephone with a direct line to the One and only, the most divine, the one we all owe everything to, the mysterious one who brings everything to us, no matter what it is. God works in mysterious ways.

The Birth of God a story.

A long, long time ago, while whoever were the first precursors to homo sapiens as they moved from grunting to the first use of language so that understanding was beginning and explanation that could be told to the group of other homo sapiens, there lived a group of these guys, in a cave? or maybe they were wanderers and berry pickers? Although anthropologists and other weighty degree bonofied professors today think that the brains of early man only became big enough to think on all these things was when they started getting a lot more protein, and wearing fur.

Anyhow there lived this group of grunting, belching, bickering, mating early men, much like a tribe of baboons who could communicate with specific and complex grunts and sounds that meant more or less the same thing every-time they were issued from the lungs and vocal chords. Now, we all know, for it is the whole idea behind every religion and it is all around us in the animal kingdom, that every group has its Lion king. In this case his name was Bocher. Now as Bocher got a bit older — and in those days no one lived much beyond about forty years — maybe he was seventeen, and more vicious and stronger and more fearless than anyone else in his group, and behind whom the others huddled if another group came and threatened them: Bocher protected them all, the female and the babies and the younger and the weaker males. But Bocher noticed that there was always a group of much younger males huddled under a mulberry tree, eating worms and berries, and picking at themselves against mites and fleas, grunting out very quietly and mysteriously. And Bocher always wondered what they were doing — what was their grunting about? Were they dissatisfied already with him? Were they plotting to kill him and take over — of course, even in that little group of younger males there was the central male who was strongest, most fearless, bravest of all, fearless really.

Bocher always preferred the company of more adult males and of course as night fell the company of the most desirable most fecund females. And everyone really adored and feared Bocher at the same time and when he approached they all grew quiet waiting to see what his next move was, because he had a history of bonging the heads of those that did one little thing to displease him — for this he used a very big and special club, made from a very, very rare kind of tree. Bocher never went anywhere without it. In fact, when he was a little tyke, his mother would chant and coo to him that one day the powerful club would be his, and she too was a fearless, fierce mother, and so protective of her offspring that she would rather be killed by the group leader than let him come within striking distance of her son. Anyhow, Bocher grew and grew into the strongest most loved and most fierce of the young men, and one day the older leader of the group came near him, as his mother kept warning him about when she sang him lullabies about birds and flowers and butterflies, for she had seen the leader before take umbrage with a young male and smack it with the holy club — he wouldn't eat the babe because by now these guys were no longer cannibals, but he would just chuck it out and let the mad wild dogs eat it, while the mother whimpered and tried to protect her beloved and often died right after he was killed, or she along with others like her, found ways to protect him when he was totally helpless and dead: the women who grouped together and got along pretty well with each other, more loving than the males were to the other males, for they were only in competition to be the favored one of the group leader, began digging deep enough holes so that the mad dogs couldn't dig little "Torless" up. Often, they put a big pile of rocks on top of the pit after they had placed the body with much veneration and love in the hole so that even the leader of the group would find it too much trouble to get at the body and chuck it laughing to the hyenas. Leaders would do anything to anyone for they feared no one in the group or anywhere else for that matter. Like Achilles, they never knew fear, for their mothers had dipped them in holy water to protect them against mortality.

On the day that the older leader came near Bocher, he was sitting alone, minding his own business, listening to the buzzing of the bees among the fragrant flowers, enjoying the peaceful breeze, the warm sun, the singing birds and the twittering and giggling young maids at whose movements he had grown in the last months to become very attentive to, because the part of himself that was between his legs had started to get big and hard when he saw them mooning about so coquettishly. Anyhow, Bocher was nibbling on some of the lice and fleas that he kept picking out of his hair with a small stick, enjoying this moment of life greatly, when the big shadow of the leader blocked the sun from his face. Bocher, being the kind of male that he was, instantaneously grew into a huge rage that someone would take away his sunlight, that he pounced on leader in one second, snatched the club and bonged him to death. Everything became deadly quiet at that moment. Bocher stood there over leader, holding the sacred club, the symbol of leader, and he laughed out loud, and this broke the intense silence and all the others came and sat around him doing him homage because now he was leader.

Anyhow, Bocher noticed the small group of young, strong males whispering and grinning to each other. They would always fall silent when he was nearby, and Bocher had at first felt and thought that it was just out of reverence and veneration for him. But now dawned in Bocher a new thought, that came from the whispers, cooing and soft singing of his mother, that they were plotting together to attack and kill him — there was no other single male near as fierce or strong as he, and only a pack of them could ever bring him down. Bocher, actually being kind of a nice guy after all, and deeply loved and respected, just couldn't get it that these other wimps would even want to try to get him. But he realized that maybe he'd be off his guard one day or taking a short snooze in the sun and they could come at him swiftly. Bocher was also not only the handsomest, most muscular, most fearless of all of them, he was also the most intelligent. His mother had fed him very well, for she was the best rabbit and squirrel catcher among all the woman, so he got a lot of meat. She had seen how the birds fed their young by chewing up the worms and then putting the cud into the beaks of the anxious whimpering little baby birds. So from a very early age in Bocher's life, even before she had finished milking him her breast nectar, she began feeding him the same way the birds did, a bit of rabbit or squirrel. Little Bocher thrived as no other had ever before — he was as close to perfection as any mortal since or after. So he realized that even though he could just kill off the other younger males, that one day he too would be weak and helpless or maybe sick and one or more would get him. So he walked along, kicking up the sand, foot-balling a nice round stone, and chewing a very sweet, long grass leaf, and it came to him at once: "eureka!", he exclaimed, "I have a better way to deal with these punks."

That very night, as everyone sat around the fire — lets assume that by now these very early men were making repetitive intelligent sounds and using some form of language, and they also had fire and maybe cooked the meat — full and belching for they had all enjoyed a young doe that very night after Bocher had brought it down with a single stone — they looked at each other smiling and feeling safe for Bocher, the great protector was there, looking his handsomest and best and strongest. That afternoon, after he had taken the blood from the doe and drank some of it and poured the rest over his naked body, he had then bathed in the clear running brook nearby where the group lived, and had washed his hair so that it shone in the firelight. The girls glowed looking at him, each darting glances at the other to see who was admiring whom.

Now, earlier in the day, Bocher had spoken at length with his aging mother, the most respected, admired female of the group who was named Marannaya. Now Marannaya was given to telling stories and singing to the group in the nightly gatherings — she was looked upon as a mother-protectress, and everyone wanted to be in her very good favor as they thought that this would protect them and bring them closer to Bocher so he would either choose them or not kill them out of displeasure. And so she began to sing. And what a song she sang!

"Aya, aya, the warm stones are singing, the snake is grinning,
the ants are smiling, the sweet grasses touching,
aya aya, all is happy, quiet and safe, for the great father of the tribe
sits there above, pouring out the light
the smiles and the might that keeps the people all safe and warm and full of
food.
Aya aya aya, he gives to us the berries and the sweet fruits, the nuts, the roots,
this sweet doe, this roasted leg and ribs.
Aya aya aya, how happy is the head man, for the great father
has favored him, and loves him above all others.
Aya aya aya, forever he protects and will smite those who
come near the head man or who touch him in his sweet sleep, as
he is rocked by the gentle breezes the great father pours over
his golden face."

"Aya aya aya, the great father will smite any who even think one thing bad
about the headman, for great father hears, see and knows all.
He knows how to make the mad dogs attack, how to make
the hated unseen things that make us filled with ugly puss sores
and kills us slowly.
Aya aya aya, always obey the Great father--listen carefully
to the headman for only he knows and understands
great father and can speak the secret songs to him, for great father
loves him like his son and favors him above all others.
Aya aya aya. Listen well to these words I sing to you."

The whole group got silent for they had never heard such a sweet yet strong song. They had never heard about the great father before — they had only thought of Bocher as their father, and now Maryannana was telling them that there was another even more powerful than HE!

Bocher bided his time, for all were quiet and kind of scared. Finally he spoke.

"Yes," he said, "I have never told any of you this nor has anyone else, neither father rain, or the eagles of the winds, neither the chirping of the crickets nor the mad laugh of the hyenas, but there is, unseen by all, for he is so powerful and great, that he can hide himself even when he is right behind you and has in his great hands so many little red ants that will bite your bum till it bleeds, the big black ones that will chew you to the bone in an instant, the big hard things that will fall on your head from the tree and kill you, the little white things that get into your nails and itch you till you die crying, the big grey one who will stamp you into the ground in one second. Yes, this is the Great Father, and my father even though none of you have known this till now. And I am the only one he has chosen to see him and talk to him, for he is my strength and my protector, and anyone or anything that comes near a hair of my body will he smite down, whether I am sick or sleeping or weak. If anyone thinks even, he sees and hears all, of trying to kill me so he can get the sacred stick, that one will never again catch a running deer and soon all the group will pounce upon him for they will be dying of hunger and will straight away want another leader.

"You women, if you do not want to die bleeding and screaming when you try and squat under the tree to let out the new one, you must come to me first and I will talk to the great father to help you and protect you. You mothers must come to me and ask me to help your sons grow big and strong without dying very little, killed by another jealous man or carried off by a leopard, and I will intercede and ask my great father to protect him. For it is only I that understand the ways of my father and into his great place often I will go and sit beside him and he will make me see all things and tell me all things.

He has chosen me, and when I die, all of you too might die for no one will be able to intercede with the great father. So assure, each and every one of you , that I am the chosen one, the one that can speak the language of the unseen great one. Help me give you all a better and safer life with lots of good things to eat and sweet water to drink and warm sun to heat you and cool breezes to make you laugh. Harm not a hair on me for you will be smitten straight off."

And they all hard Bocher and grew silent and very scared, for not a one knew not whether the great father stood near himself for they could never hear him, or see him, or plead with him — only Bocher was the chosen one.

And so was born God. And so was made the first monarch. And so was made the pyramid that runs our every moment.

The Love story of Peperomis and Begonia

Another chapter from A Cat's Tale — this is the tale about two plants that lived in my loft

Now that I am a cat, though I was once a human, it never fails to amaze me with what callous complexity the human mind works. I speak here of course of my human, who, though often right in tune with his true instincts, and the workings of nature, is equally as often stupid, blind, and counter to himself and his better parts. We cats might do things that hurt us, but it is out of sheer unknowingness, as for instance we may come too close to fire, not realizing that it will singe our whiskers or our tail. But humans will do the same thing, only they know that the fire will singe them or burn them or kill them. Yet they will act contrary to all their knowledge, and then they will wonder how it is that they have become burnt. And they will become black with anger not at their own stupidity but rather at the fire for having the power to burn them, even though that is the true nature of the fire, and it is only doing what is its necessity. All of this, is by way of a prelude to a sad affair that caused much grief and much pain.

Many plants live in the great loft along with me and Mugs and my human. And when one considers the conditions of city life, of how much there is of dust and noxious fumes, and of how the cold creeps in in the winter, and how hot the heat can get in the summer, one must be proud that they pretty much all do so well, growing here and there. With some of the plants my relationship is not very good, for they do not trust me.

I cannot but help myself from chewing on the sweet fronds of the ponytail palm. And it doesn’t like that at all, being exceedingly vain of its looks.

“O cat,” wails the palm, “cat (for it refuses to call me by my name which possibly only makes me want to nibble on it all the more) see how ugly you make me look, turning my beautiful green fronds brown at the edges. It isn’t fair. If you would only leave me alone, I could vegetate in my beauty, and your human could be truly proud of owning me.”

To this I only snicker, knowing full well that it only wishes to look beautiful for itself, and has no need to make my human feel good. All it cares for from him is that he waters it. Some of the other plants agree with me, for they also think the palm the vainest plant in the loft.

Of the plants that lived together in the summer room, by far the happiest were Peperomis and Begonia, who had the good fortune of living in the same pot, and loving each other exceedingly. They had not always lived together. When they first came to live here, they were in separate pots, but being placed close together, they had gotten to know each other, and from this knowledge a great love had grown up between them.

One winter, Peperomis got very ill, and my human was very upset, not knowing what to do. He thought perhaps that he had over watered it, and that it was dying of rot. Not much was left of poor Peperomis, and my human gave up on him. Thinking him quite dead, he took some of Begonia and stuck her in that pot. And lo and behold, when spring came with her sweet breath, Peperomis recovered and bloomed forth. My human thought perhaps that it was merely the cycle of the seasons that had brought him back to life, but I knew better.

And so the two bloomed together, wrapped in the aura of wonderful love. They would whisper to each other all day long, and they would sleep nestled in each other’s leaves. So happy.

Now another winter came, and in the great dryness that overtakes us all from the steam heat, Begonia caught the bug. The family from whence she came got it very very badly. So much so, that my human transferred them to the wood shop so that they would not infect anyone else. And when he saw that Begonia had it too, he took the whole pot and put them in the woodshop too. But at least he left Peperomis and her together.

Peperomis was very unhappy to see his lady languishing so. “O my dearest dearest Begonia, if it comes about that the bug carries you off from me, I too shall die, for you are my living half, and without you I cannot live.”

Now the weather got warmer, and yet the bug survived. And one day my human came and looked at the sick plants. I sat and watched. And he decided that he would put those that were sick out on the roof, hoping perhaps that the rain and the sun and the wind would perhaps cure them. He took up Peperomis and Begonia, and not seeing any illness attaching itself to Peperomis, he wrenched Begonia out of the pot and stuck her in with her dying relatives. “Ai, ai my love, my love, all is lost,” cried Begonia. Of course our human could not hear the shrieking and wailing as the lovers were torn apart. But I could and I did a wild dance about him, hoping perhaps that he would understand, but also a little hopelessly, knowing how stupid humans could often be.

So Begonia was put out on the roof, left to die, and Peperomis was placed in the winter room where my human thought he would be better off, warmed by long afternoons of the western sun. But Peperomis languished and wilted. “O Mishmish,” he would groan, “how is my Begonia? How I long to lay leaf upon her delicate downy leaf. Please go Mishmish and see for me how she is. Does she still live?”

Off I would go to the roof, and see how she was. What a terrible sight it was too. The whole tribe of them, sick and dying, groaning in the heat, and she, still strong, would wail to me. “Mishmish, how is my Peperomis, does he still love me, is he strong and well? O I fear that I am done with here. See how my poor tribe dies from the bug. Go and bring this message to my Peperomis. Say to him that he must live and be strong to love another, that it is nature’s way. And that he must live to relate our great love for each other so that something of us will survive and be a symbol to the other plants.”

Then I would go to Peperomis and tell him what Begonia had said. And I would try to cheer him up. The great horned cactus who stood close by, who the summer before had lost two flowers before they bloomed, would say to Peperomis, “Be strong, be strong, for this is nature’s way. You must survive.” But there were many other plants that wept openly and could not be strong in example to Peperomis.

I worked on my human to make him see the folly of his ways. But in vain. And now the tribe of Begonia were dead, though she still survived. For the power of her love made her almost immune to the bug. Now finally it happened that my human was on a tour of plant inspection, cleaning the leaves, moving them about. And when he came to Peperomis he saw that he was not at all well.

“What ails you, why do you not flourish?” he asked. “Do I give you too much water, too much sun?”

Now all the plants along with me concentrated on giving him the thought. I danced about him, and he noticed me, and I scooted off to the roof. And so he followed. He came upon the lost tribe, and seeing that Begonia was still alive, he took her in his fingers and picked her up away from death, and brought her back to Peperomis.

“Now,” he said, “you two will flourish together as you did before.”

Such joy, such happiness when the two were reunited as before. All the plants, from the scheffeleria to the cactuses and the palms and the spider plants cried loudly their joy at seeing the two united again. Never had they seen two plants who so loved each other.

"O my Peperomis," cried Begonia, rubbing her soft downy leaf along his leaves. How I have missed you. Being away from you was the loneliest time of my life. Had it not been for Mishmish I would have died long ago. But she brought me much hope that I would see you again and that you were well."

"O Begonia," replied Peperomis, "I too should have died had it not been for the great Mishmish, the messenger of our love." He coughed a bit. It was obvious that he was not well. He too had caught the bug.

The bug was very tough and refused to leave Begonia. There were no other soft fleshed leafy plants around that this nasty white fungus enjoyed dining on. Even though many of the other plants would have been willing to sacrifice themselves for the great love of Peperomis and Begonia. It was their separation that had so weakened the two that they had no resistance to fend off the white fungy. When our human saw once again that they were both ailing, he moved them out to the roof, with the vain hope that the sun and the moon and the wind and the rain would cure them. they were beyond insecticides, he thought, as this kind of fungy could only be killed by systemics, and these small plants had gone too far and were almost covered in the fungy.

Each day, I would run out on the roof to visit them and see how they were doing. They were very weak, but happy that they had each other. I would give a daily report to all the other plants, and they would all drop tears along their fronds and leaves.

Finally, I came out on to the roof one morning and found the two leaf enwrapped with leaf. The life had gone out of them. There their little bodies stayed till the sun and the wind had so dried them up that they just blew away. and so ends the great love story of Peperomis and Begonia.

Flyland—The History of Flies

Flyland
October 2003

It was a hot summer day. The animals lay along the north wall of the huge loft where there was some shade and a humid breeze. They all felt very lazy.

Mishmish, always the dainty cat, was curled into a black ball, her delicate head tucked under her front paws. She was deep in sleep and shuddered from time to time as she dreamt of milk and mice.

Mugs, too, was hot. He lay on his side. His huge Doberman body spread out, legs straight, the way dogs lie. His massive head, black with a touch of brown, was thrown back. As dogs go, he was a very handsome fellow. He panted his sleep, tongue hanging out and a bit of drool dripping off.

Little Arthur, the tabby kitten, slept as usual under the couch where he felt safe, even though it was hotter there than on the open floor.

Herbert, a spry little mouse with a shiny black coat, and an elegant tail, slept in the tube core of a roll of toilet paper that Mugs had retrieved from the bathroom waste basket. At the other end, lay the demure Nan, a sweet grey mouse, with pink ears, and a charming squinty nose.

Upon one of the columns, close by the sleeping menagerie, hung a very large house spider named Vergil. He was a very impressive spider, deep brown and black in color. His legs were finely pointed, and he had the largest pincers you’d ever seen. When he slept one eye always stayed open, on the prowl for a nice fat fly. Above him, sleeping soundly were thirty grandchildren spiderettes, trentuplets as they’d hatched within seconds of each other from momma’s eggs.

Flies gave a quiet buzz from time to time. They didn’t move. Even for them the heat was too oppressive to buzz much or move about. They looked like black specks on the walls and ceiling.

Everyone felt a bit sticky and wet from the humidity.

Mishmish, who was extraordinarily acute in the area of sound, pricked up her ears. She heard and felt the slightest, most delicate breeze, no louder or stronger than a sixty-fourth note pianissimo. A very large fly was the source of the sound. He had floated down to the floor. He was the most extraordinary fly she had ever seen. She raised herself up into a long cat stretch shaking out her back legs, gave a big yawn, and sat up. She lay down again and lowered her head to get a better view of the fly.

He wore a fedora hat and a tartan waistcoat. He was smoking a fly sized cigar which smelt quite terrible. He had a swaggering, brusque manner. He came and sat near her nose upon a small stick lying on the floor, crossed his middle legs using his long jumping legs to balance himself, and held his cigar with one of his upper legs.

“Hey there cat,” said the fly. “I’ve heard about you. Aren’t you called Mis or something?”

“My name is Mishmish”, she said. “Wow! What a fly! Who are you?”

“My name is Flig. I’m a leader of the flies hereabout. We flies kind of hang together. We have our own ways of living by. Most other creatures think that we are just nuisances that eat muck.”

“Well,” said Mishmish, “we’re not wrong for thinking that. You’re always dive-bombing my litter box and it’s quite smelly and pasty sometimes, as my human can be very lazy and forgetful. Isn’t that muck? What can you expect when we see you feeding on offal and rotting stuff in the garbage can? But you, I say, look quite different than most any other fly, and very clean too. I’ve never seen a fly in a tartan waistcoat and a fedora hat before.”

“Well, yes,” said Flig, “I’m sort of an ambassador fly. I go around trying to set the record straight . We didn’t always chew on turds and rotting lettuce leaves.”

“Why do you come now to tell us how clean flies once were,” she asked.

“Well, I’ve heard that here live most intelligent animals who discuss weighty subjects and who love stories and philosophy,” he replied. “Maybe you can help the bad opinion everyone has of flies.”

“Well this is true,” answered Mishmish. “We love discussing history and humans and all kinds of moral issues. But, we love stories most of all, and are beholden to any other creature or non-creature that has a tale to tell.”

“Well, well, well,” said Flig, “then I have just such a story that will edify and enrapture you.”

“I am now awake and am all ears,” she said.

“Once upon a time, we had our own civilization. We had a very different life then. We weren’t just nuisances buzzing around your faces and your food, or worse.”

“What was that you said?” she exclaimed loudly. “Once upon a time! Oh how I love those words, tell me, tell me. Oh please, tell me the story.”

Mishmish’s shout of joy woke up all the other sleeping animals. Some of them were quite grumpy. “Mishmish,” they groaned, “Mishmish, why do you have to wake us up? It’s still so hot!”

But their curiosity was fired up as soon as they noticed the very odd, large fly. Whoever could resist hearing a ‘once upon a time’ story from such a creature? It was sure to be interesting. The mice straggled sleepily out of their toilet roll tube. Little Arthur peered out from his safe hiding place, his black nose twitched excitedly at the commotion and the promise of a story. He loved stories most of all, even more than fish. “Wow,” he piped up. “A gangster fly!”

“No,” Flig said,”I am no gangster fly, but I am a robber fly. That’s why I am so big. I come from a special tribe of flies. We call us the Asilinis.”

After everyone had settled down a bit, as the heat made the animals quite uncomfortable so they fluttered and twitched as they got settled, Mishmish introduced Mugs, Arthur, Herbert and Nan.

“Pleased to meet you Flig Fly,” said Little Arthur.

“Yes, likewise,” said Mugs and Nan.

“I love your waistcoat,” said Herbert. “How finely sewn it is, and the back a very nice silk. I can hardly wait to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Little Arthur, tripping over his words with excitement. “I also can hardly not wait neither. I love, love, love stories.”

“Well,” Flig said, “pleased to oblige, because that is my purpose in life, to edify and enlighten about my fellow flies, how we really are and how we really were. I must explain that we are very intelligent insects.

“It’s true we flies don’t live very long here in this world. So how could we know anything? We aren’t even around long enough to go through kindergarten, let alone college. But you see, well, we flies share in a kind of communal brain of all our race, back to the misty past. It’s kind of like, you know, we don’t have our own big brain, but we move about directly wired to a huge external brain so we don’t need the individual stuff. So when we need to know something we just pick it up through the air from other flies or from the hookup to the Great Fly Brain. No one knows where that is anymore. But once upon a time, things were very different for us flies.”

Flig clapped his middle feet together and made an odd noise with his wings and a kind of high pitched pipey sound came out of his proboscis and pincer mouth. “Now one, two, three, hit it boys.”

At these words, a row of large black flies appeared as if by magic. They did a little dance, hopping right and then left by opening and closing their wings. At the same time they all sang.

With a big, big brain are we blessed.
See us flies, we are the best.
With a thousand facets in our eyes,
we are never duped by human lies.
No sharp tongued walking killers
Can wipe us out for thrillers.
We dive-bomb these boobs
and nasty pimply dudes.
We suck their blood and eat their meat
and in their potato salad meet.
No dummies us, no fools,
nor idiotic ghouls.
We’re cleverer than the rest.
See, see, see, we flies are the best.

All the animals cheered at the song. “Hippy, hah, ho,” laughed Little Arthur.

Herbert laughed so much that he rolled about the floor and rubbed his fat little belly and giggled. “Too much, too much,” he said.

Flig continued after the laughing had quieted down. “I’m going to tell you about things that are very secret and that no fly ever talks about. But I like you guys, and I figure that it’s ok for you to know the real truth.

“Flyland. Flyland. Beautiful Flyland. Here we lived once in paradise, in fly splendor. And even though things are very different now, we have a lot to be proud of. For example, humans would not be flying around in machines if it weren’t for us flies. Why, not only did we give them the idea of flying, we also gave them the name for it: fly. They’d never have figured it out for themselves. Even the birds learnt the same thing from us. Remember, like the roaches and the fleas, we go back a quarter of a billion years. But in success and number of us and number of species, we are more dominant than our primordial brother insects, cockroaches and fleas.”

A cell of militant fleas had snuck in very quietly. The fleas always had spies about that blended in so well no one even knew they were present. These might be very young fleas who would hide in the fur of mice, or very old, toothless fleas. Now these particular fleas, very bold and arrogant, came forward. They were a mean looking bunch.

They all wore little white gutras or turbans with the doubled black igal cord that held the turbans tightly about their dangerous looking heads. They carried tiny Uzis, and their little bodies were crisscrossed with bandoliers. They came into the circle of animals without a sound.

When Flig saw them, he blanched. Immediately the five singing flies encircled his back and sides like bodyguards. The flies were a tough lot that wouldn’t be messed with. So there was a detente between flea and fly.

“Hah, a pack of lies,” exclaimed one of the fleas. His gutra was checkered and folded so that it hung about his back. He was the biggest flea you’d ever seen. It was assumed by all that he was the leader, because of the way he carried himself and stood out at the front of the others.

“You flies are nothing compared to us fleas,” he said. His voice was quiet but menacing. “We preceded you on planet earth. While you were just some slimy cells in a pool of water somewhere, we were kings of the world. Heck, we roamed all over the joint. If anyone has a claim to success and ownership, it’s us. We’ve been jumping all over this ball of soil for aeons, far and wide. You flies have usurped too much from us.”

“The terrorist fleaty gang,” said Flig. “A bunch of balupas. We flies know who you are. The word’s out. So watch it.”

Everyone felt the tension. It seemed as though the two bands were going to go at each other.

“And who are you?” asked Mugs. He gave a soft growl, which coming from him, was not to be ignored. He was getting a bit angry at the sight of these evil eyed terrorists. In his past life he had been a G.I., so he knew all about terrorists. “And stay off my clean black coat and brown shod paws or I’ll kill you all with one big huff.”

“My name is El Rashid Ishmael bin Julababad,” said the big flea. “I’m a flea with a mission. To free all my fellow fleas from laboratory extinction.”

“But, but, but,” sputtered Little Arthur. He still did not speak or meow mellifluously like Mishmish his mentor. “Whatever are, are are youse doing? Helping other fleas held in nasty human places?”

“I fight for our race everywhere. We deserve the right to blood and the right to transport microbes, a thing that the flies, who are usurpers, took from us.

“They call us terrorist fleas, the flies. And humans think that when we bite them, usually on their smelly toes, that we’re even worse than terrorists. What do humans know of terrorism? Not much. But it is them, not us, that are the terrorists. And what an incompetent lot they are. They mostly kill themselves as well as their prey. Just a few here and there. But we can lay claim to huge wipe outs. Heck, we killed half of Europe and didn’t even have to go around the block. We got the rats to do the dirty. All we had to do is bite them and they went so mad that they left their homes and ran through the streets spreading the little airborne spores. Now, that was a feat to be respected. We fleas just sat back and leisurely sucked on all the blood we could ever have wanted.”

Vergil, the huge house spider, had descended from his high vantage point. When the fleas saw him, it put the fear of Allah into them. They hoped that he wasn’t going to web them up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The fleas all nervously put their sharp clawy feet on the butt of their little Uzis. The flies also shuddered at the thought of being caught in a spider web and being dined on while still alive. It was no fun, having a spider eat a nice leg attached to your thorax while you watched.

Vergil sensed the insects’ discomfort. “Be calm, be calm. I have eaten my fill. I am more interested in talking with you than in eating you,” he said.

“You fleas say you were the first ones here on earth. But that is still unproved. Indeed, all the ancestors of insects precede the Triassic period. We all go back beyond the beyond, close to the time earth was habitable. All of us survived every calamity that wiped out the other creatures, large and small. The ice age, the great cataclysm, all sorts of nature’s fury and wrath.But let us first listen to Flig’s story, for I am sure it’s very interesting,” said Vergil.

“Yes,” chorused Nan and Herbert.

“Oh, please go on,” said Mishmish. Little Arthur gave her a grateful glance.

“And you fleas, quiet you down,” said Mugs very sternly. “No more of these self-serving, prideful interruptions. I want to hear all about Flyland.”

The fleas grumbled and muttered quietly. They sat down and put their Uzis on the floor in front of them, a great relief to the cats and mice.

“Well,” said Flig, the Asilini fly, “I’ve quite forgotten where I was before this swaggering interruption. Ah, yes ... I know that humans hate us and think we’re just disease carriers, but we contribute a lot to the whole ecosystem of earth. We help pollinate, and we also move bacteria around from place to place, so they don’t all congregate where they’d be even more dangerous. What would humans do with fly swatters if it wasn’t for us? We contribute a lot to their relationships, too. If we didn’t come buzzing around, a lot of them wouldn’t know what to talk about.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mishmish. “But can you get back to the story?”

“Well, let’s see wherre was I,” stuttered Flig. He took a puff from his cigar and coughed a bit. “Ahem. By buzzing around nasty offal, we show humans where some of their own kind are messing up the place by dumping anywhere they want. If you see a huge clump of flies droning loudly over something, you can be sure that it’s a dead rat or something rotting away in the sun. No one would want their kid to be playing near a spot like that. So see, we are actually very helpful to humans.

“The story,” cried Herbert, “let’s hear the story.” He was getting quite frustrated at all this fly preaching.

“We now, yes ... But I have another point to make,” said Flig. “We also get the dung beetles worked up and working faster by giving them a lot of our over production of maggots. They love these tasty morsels so much they convert cow and horse dung faster into loam to reach these fat treats. This saves humans millions every year since they do not have to clean up any dung at all. And we also clean up their corpses after the undertaker leaves.”

“Humans just never know appreciation. That’s why they’re such an unhappy lot,” said El Rashid.

“Yes, that’s true,” said Mishmish. “I don’t know why they’re such dunderheads.”

“It’s because they cannot see outside of themselves,” said Vergil. “They are trapped and imprisoned by thoughts and concepts. But, please continue Flig.”

“And you know what else, our maggots have been used to clean wounds so they don’t turn gangrenous ...”

“Humans love you so much they’re always trying to annihilate you with poisons. Get on with the story,” growled Mugs.

“Well, now, um, let’s see,” said Flig. “The only reason we even tolerate humans is for all of their trash. There are always lots of dribblers and droppers — this is what we call humans, ‘dribblers’ and ‘droppers’. It’s like those big cafeteria soda machines where you push a button and the soda comes out, sometimes it keeps dribbling a bit. So, a lot of humans dribble from the sides of their mouth while they are sipping their sweet drinks. Guess the sugar relaxes their muscles. Or they spray out a lot of it when they’re talking to each other and sipping between words. To us flies, it’s like a huge rain shower of sweet droplets that land all over the other person’s clothes and some fall to the ground. Then, they wonder why we flies are all buzzing around. Hey, for us it’s a party.

“And then you know, when the baker pulls all that crusty bread and cookies from his oven, there are always delicious hot crumbs. Even in pizza parlors, we get our fair share of the crumbs, and sometimes splats of Romano and Parmesan cheese, and a bit of leftover pepperoni or even a mushroom. I myself don’t go in for these new-fangaled pizzas with funny stuff like pineapples. Give me the good ole USA kind.

“The ‘droppers’ are all kinds of people, I’d say pretty much everyone, except for the most tight-mouthed who play it close to the lips with napkins. But there are some things that just crumb up, like those elephant ear cookies. They just crumble when you look at them. And then there are the fat ladies who can’t but help drop crumbs on their breasts. Wow, what a treat it is for us to be able to dive bomb onto a luscious soft, warm plateau to taste a sweet crumb. But no mind, absolutely everywhere there are ‘droppers’.

“And little human kids make the most mess of all. The younger, the messier. The parents, of course, get very upset when they see us buzzing around their young offspring trying to lick off all that juicy stuff on their fingers, hands, mouths and faces.

“We flies, we don’t ask for much. Hell, we eat up all the crumbs that the ‘dribblers’ and ‘droppers’ leave all over the place. Yet they still hate us, the humans, and want to eradicate us. But they haven’t succeeded yet. Face it, one way to look at human life is that you get born, you make a lot of trash, and then you die. If they could face facts, they’d admit we are the most successful of all the species on earth. Earth cannot survive without us, but it sure can do without man.”

“Hey, hey, there you go again,” shouted out Vergil and all his grandchildren spiders, “what do you mean you are the most successful species? What about us spiders and all the other insects?”

“Yes, and don’t forget about us fleas,” chimed in El Rashid.

“Sorry,” said Flig, “I meant insects in general.

“Can we get back to the story?” asked Mishmish. “Enough of all this pontifcating now. Let’s hear the rest of the once-upon-a-time. Come, flig, the story.”

“Sorry, I get carried away. Let’s see, where was I. But wait, well, uh, we flies lived in paradise. But let me just male one more important point. Humans are always belly aching about overcrowding and too many cars and how big and packed Mexico City is. Pfaw! In a square kilometer, there are 10,000 million of our insect brethren. In a square mile, 26,000 million. Why one acre of land is home to 12 million spiders alone. The human population of earth is about 6 billion. Guess how many of your fellow insects live here with them. Come on, just guess.”

“Er, a billion, ten billions, er trills ....,” piped up little Arthur.

“No doubt a shit load,” said Mugs.

“Come on, come on,” shouted the mice getting very excited.

“Ok, here goes. There are 120 quadrillions of us all over the earth.”

“But what’s a quadrillion?” asked Arthur.

“Ok I’ll spell it out,” said Flig. “There are twelve zero zerozerozero, zerozerozero, zerozerozero, zerozerozero, zerozerozero!”

“Wow! Boy, talk about overcrowding,” said Mugs.

“Yep,” said Flig, “we are not to be taken lightly.” And he gave a wicked little snort.

“Back to the story, please Flig,” asked Vergil in his smoothest voice.

Flig shuddered. “Now in Flyland,” Flig continued, “there were all kinds of flies. There were the sacred flies, gold in color and very large; they were priestly flies. Then there were the big green bottlenose flies, and the large blues, iridescent like sapphires. The big black flies -- and I mean very big. And all the regular sized flies. The houseflies, the fruit flies, the garden flies, and the horse flies, the stable flies, the rabbit flies, the mice flies. So many flies, in fact, that one could write a whole book about the varieties.

“In those ancient times, we flies didn’t fly because we didn’t need to. Actually none of us even knew how to fly really. We ambled about having deep conversations. We ate flower petals and the like, or fruit. We didn’t even buzz because we had no need for that either. See, in Flyland we had no predators. There weren’t spiders trying to web us up for dinner. There weren’t humans with poisons and stuff.

“Now, we were very good climbers and we knew how to hang glide or float, but we never knew that we could flap our wings and fly off. All that came later. I think that it was like there was a switch in the fly brain that had never been thrown to tell us that we could fly and buzz about. We knew how to jump off places and float down. The kids loved that the most. They liked climbing up to the top of a rock and floating down when there was a nice breeze, because they could float quite a long way.

“Hmph,” broke in El Rashid. “We fleas didn’t have that problem. We weren’t that ignorant when it came to how we were equipped. We always knew how to jump very high. How come flies couldn’t fly?” He snorted with glee.

“Don’t ask me, but we just never knew we could.” Flig controlled his anger. “We didn’t need to escape from predators, so why should we ever exert ourselves flying? There was no necessity to fly far for food. No necessity to congregate and buzz together around good rotting stuff where we lay our eggs. Everything was different then.

“We had cities, even. These cities weren’t really planned. They just grew naturally from our desire for the common good. I think that it’s ok to say that in those days, it wasn’t every fly for himself. The common good was what we all lived by. It is told that the wasps were hired to construct huge spherical cities for us flies, with lots of little apartments. Our early fly ancestors even had the bees build smaller spheres for the baby flies. Our eggs were laid in nurseries of sweet honeycomb because our baby flies love the taste. Around the city were lovely gardens where we would sit in the sun and feed on savory flower petals and leaves.”

“It sounds like such a pretty place,” sighed Little Arthur.

“Yes, it was. See, we flies were living in our paradise. We didn’t even know that we were called flies as there was no one to tell us we were flies. We just were.

“We thought our communication. We knew how to ‘talk to’ those that weren’t flies that lived about us. It was a very simple pointing language. Our own language which is only dimly recalled and predated buzzese, the way we talk to each other now, was called flugenese or something. After we left Flyland we just buzzed at each other.

“But something was amiss in Flyland. Things were changing, and no one really knew why. We were getting bored. Or, maybe we were getting disconnected from the common good and getting further and further away from the shared brain. No one has really been able to explain why this even happened, but a dim kind of consciousness was being born. So all that came to pass later cannot be blamed on what Fladam, the most notorious fly in our history, did later. The seed of our destruction was already planted.”

“Ahem, if I might say something,” said Vergil the house spider. “It is the paradox of paradise that was taking place. You see within the ember of paradise there is also the destruction of paradise. The only way to have true paradise that lasts is to come back to it after labor and suffering. It is all intended as such. It had to happen to you flies. Only after getting back to the original core of being can you once again have a paradise that will last. I know it seems silly to say, but just as you flies didn’t know you were flies, so paradise is unknown without ‘un-paradise’.”

“Yep,” replied Flig, “I see your point. The fall took a long time. It didn’t just happen in an instant. We flies got away slowly from our original purpose, which was simply to be in the best state that we could be. It was kind of like everything just started cracking.

“Now in Flyland, we no longer had perfect equality. It used to be that a fly was a fly was a fly. Now there were kinds of classes of flies. See, there were flies of different sizes and different colors. The big gold flies now rode enormous centipedes. In the last few years before the end, the gold flies had gotten rather ostentatious. They really didn’t care how much they had to feed their ‘centis’ (as we call centipedes). And they were always trading in old centis for newer younger ones with brighter colors. Why, some of the gold fly families might keep four or more centis. They even used smaller blue flies to drive the centis for them, as they felt that it was beneath them to sit upfront and coax the centis where they wanted to go.

“Oh, I’d love to ride on a huge big worm,” said Herbert, giggling. “It must feel all soft and wiggedly woggledy. What a trip that would be.”

“Hm,” said Vergil in a whisper with an edge to it. “Worms are ok, but not to ride. Just to eat.”

All the insects shuddered. Flig stopped dead.

“Don’t worry, Flig,” said Mishmish. Vergil enjoys shaking things up. I’m sure he’s more interested in your tale than your taste.”

“C’mon, Flig,” said Mugs, “please go on. Nothing will happen to you.”

“Uhum. Now where was I .... Well a lot of the so-called upper class flies also started to keep pets. Aphids were all the rage. Trouble was you had to keep them leashed in because they got stolen a lot and wound up in fresh ‘suckie’ bars where they were chopped up raw and served on small tasty bay leaves. The blue flies, who were always into the avant garde, loved this new kind of food. I think they learned about it from other insects. They were always pretending they weren’t really flies, but put on airs as though they were butterflies. Honestly, it really galled the other flies. They used to call them ‘bluppiess’. They had their own lifestyle. They were the most arrogant of all the flies.

“Various classes of flies kept various pets. A lot of them got the mite craze after a famous fly actress was seen kissing her mite. There was such a mite fad that all the plants got very happy when the fly pet shops rustled them off the Ficus trees and other plants to have enough stock. Mealy bugs were big, too, for awhile. Flies loved their fuzzy soft whiteness. But they didn’t live long and had to be constantly placed on living leaves so they could suck out the juice. High maintenance pets didn’t suit flies, especially not the bluppies.”

“Wow,” said Mishmish, “I’m amazed that you flies had a kind of civilization. Did you have rules and laws and the like?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Flig. “There is still a dim recollection of this in the shared fly brain. But, that was a very long time ago. A time mostly forgotten and lost in the thick mists of history.”

The mice and the cats were amazed at all they heard. Flies living in cities! Who would have thought? “Go on, go on, please Flig,” they shouted. “Tell us more, tell us more.”

“Well, as story goes,” continued Flig, “one day a group of bluppie flies got antsy and started talking and challenging each other. Like I said, they got bored very easily now and always wanted some novel kind of stimulation. I don’t know why but they were more dissatisfied than the rest of the flies. They must have had something wrong with them. They were never at peace.

“Anyhow, they wanted to go out beyond the bounds of Flyland. You see, no one was allowed to leave Flyland. What grew there stayed there. That was the law. There were also dire warnings about what lay outside and there were curses to keep the flies from leaving the borders. It was said that whoever left Flyland would be doomed to forever be in movement and would not eat sweet flowers, but rotting leaves and muck. Everyone was taught this. The first law was that no fly could leave Flyland.

“Flyland was big enough for all the flies. None of them ever thought of leaving Flyland. Why should they? They had everything they could ever want. Whatever did they think they’d find outside of Flyland except maybe death or something even scarier?

“But, there was no stopping bluppies once they got an idea. I suppose they shouldn’t receive all the blame. As I said, the seed of our destruction was already planted. The bluppies were high spirited and loved hang gliding. Some old fly had told them about the myths of the other side. He had said that there were mountains and rivers and that there were huge thermal updrafts where a fly could coast along for hours. Well, this was something hard to resist for the athletic young blues.

“So one day, very early in the morning, they stole to the border of Flyland and crossed over. Nothing much seemed all that different to them. They came to a brook of nice clean cold water, where they played about and took baths.

“One of the blues was named Fladam. He’s written right into our shared fly brain history as the one who messed everything up for us flies. He was kind of the leader of the bluppies who all followed him and adored him. He was full of bravura and swagger.

“The other flies said to him, “Fladam, we’re hungry. Let’s go eat some of those corn flower petals before returning to Flyland.”

“What,” replied Fladam, “eat the same old stuff when we’re here in this new and wonderful place? And return already when we’ve not even seen anything much about this world so new to us. No way. I’m staying.”

A few of the less brave blues did return, but the rest kept walking along, following Fladam. They came into a clearing. The sun now was very hot and they thought to rest awhile. Each found a nice stalk to lean against and take a snooze. Now, the stalk that Fladam had chosen to lean against was quite broad and belonged to a very green leafy plant that had long fronds of seeds. It was its time of year to drip a sweet smelling resinous fluid.

“Fladam lay against the stalk and fell asleep. He snored and was having a wonderful dream. Unbeknown to him, the resin dripped down the stalk and came and settled about his mouth, and dripped onto his belly, for he leaned against the stalk. Poor Fladam, he knew not what he was about to do. Well, as story goes, the resin was very hot from being in the sun, and it woke Fladam right up, and he tasted it in his mouth. It had a pungent odor, the like he had never before smelt. And it had a strange numbing taste. But he liked it and soon had licked it all off his proboscis. He felt a little light headed, and thought that maybe it was because he was still hungry, so he climbed up the stalk to get to the source of the resin and he started slurping it up. Little did he know that that action would forever change the course of fly life.”

“Why?” asked Arthur, the little kitten. “Why?”

“Well,” replied Flig, “there are many strange things both now and in days of old that can change how a creature sees the world. Something he might drink or eat might alter his mind a bit. And this is what we flies feel happened to Fladam.

“After a while, as it’s told, he felt very strange, the world looked very different to him. He saw his comrades still sleeping down at the bases of the plants in the shade. He started to fly about the plants and dive bomb down. He buzzed his comrades. He shouted out to them. ‘Bzzz! Hey, friends, bzzz, hey up here friends! Bzzz! Fly, fly up here. Bzzz! Fly up here! Bzzz come and taste this stuff!’

“Well his friends just looked at him with gaping probosci, like he was crazed or something. His friends looked up at him. ‘Huh? Fly, what’s fly?’

‘It’s this, it’s this,’ and Fladam flew around to show them. ‘Come up here. C’mon, don’t be such cowards. Get up here and taste this stuff.’

“Well, even though they thought he was acting very strangely, they followed him by climbing up the stalk and they all drank the nectar. They all started buzzing at each other and started flying about. And their eyes could see now in many different directions at the same time. They were having a really good time. Now they knew “fly”. And it wasn’t very long before they knew the names for many things, even for what they were. Nothing would ever be the same again for these flies.

“They returned to Flyland and hauled as much of the resin back with them as they could. And they got a lot of the others to drink it as well. Once they had tasted the resin, others left Flyland and went looking for the source of the knowledge plant that the resin dripped from. Some returned to give resin to others. It wasn’t long before Flyland was deserted. All the flies had flown off after they had tasted the nectar. They had broken the law about never leaving Flyland. So Flyland was no more. And all of us flies were forever in flight and moving about all over the earth, living out our lives eating muck and stuff, living a hard life, hated and killed by humans, the food for spiders and other insects and animals.

“This is all lost in the mists of time. The memory only resides in the Great Fly Brain. But there still remains a song about this glorious past in our history, with a hope that we might return once more to the wonderful bright garden that was Flyland.”

“O, please sing, please do,” the mice said together, for they loved songs.

“Yes, for me too, please sing it,” piped up Little Arthur, the kitten.

And the baby spiders all clamored, “Yes, please, o please sing it to us all.”

“OK, we’ll try,” said the huge big flies that had sung the earlier ditty.

“OK, ready flies?” asked Flig. “One, two, three.”

Flyland, Flyland, Glorious home
Garden birthplace full of loam.
Most beautiful motherland lost in time
We shed tears throughout this rhyme.
Momma’s there and Poppa too,
Thinking this always makes us blue.
In our dreams the gardens bloom,
Our cities safe and far from doom.
One day we will return to you,
In all corners of the earth we now boo-hoo.

The flies all had to use a lot of kleenex after this to wipe their faceted eyes. But to tell the truth, even the restrained Mishmish, had tears in her eyes. And all the children were crying openly, the song was so sad.

“What a lovely song,” said Little Arthur.

“Yes,” said Herbert. “I wonder if we mice had a motherland also in the past?”

“These stories about a wonderful, glorious past are not uncommon and are in the historical consciousness of almost all creatures. Even humans have one, and they think it’s the only one or the first one,” said Vergil laughing. “They are so silly and their history is the shortest. One wonders how they can be so arrogant as to think that their idea of paradise is the only one.”

“Well, you know how humans are,” said Mishmish. “They prefer not to think that they might not be at the top of everything.”

“In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king,” said Mugs. “How could humans ever realize that maybe the smallest insect precede them in every way. Even in paradise.?”

© 2000 A Cat's Tale Dennis Shapiro

An Animal Story: Discourse on Devolution

This is my first post. As I am in the process of writing a lot that will soon be up, I thought I'd jump in with this story from my book, A Cat's Tale.

A Cat's Tale: Discourse on Devolution

Guadalajara Sunday 26, 2003 Edit 11/5/2003, rev 1. 11/6/2003

"Good midnight," began Mishmish, the black cat, surveying the assembled crowd of animals before her. She rubbed her mouth with a clawy paw before continuing.

"Tonight I am going to set the record straight. Mankind proposed an evolution of the species that puts him at the top of the scale. Now you will learn why this is wrong."

The whole crowd murmured with surprise, shifting their paws and many legs about so that the air had a faint scratchy hiss and rumbling. Present were lots of mice, including Nan, Herbert Spangles and Old Man as well as lots of rats, including Smelly, Foully and Stinky. The pigeon, Esmeralda, was also present, and the house spider, Vergil, along with about three dozen of his spider children and grandchildren. The dogs, including Mugs and Dog, and many roaches, with their top brass, including Ethelred, their leader, had also shown up. Also a lot of the cats, Little Arthur, Bo, Zippy and Harry Rat Baby, as well as El Rashid Ishmael bin Julababad, the flea along with a huge contingent of his tribe. Many others were there too, so many in fact, that I cannot name them all. They had all come when they heard that Mishmish, the cat, was going to give a talk very relevant to them all. Her talk, which had been advertised widely through the building, promised:

Stop Feeling Bad!

Even if You're An Insect Find Out
How To Change Your Life!
Come learn why You are The Most
Powerful and the Best On Earth!
Feel Better About Yourself.
Increase Your Self Esteem.
Everyone is invited to a Free Talk by
the brilliant black cat,
Mishmish the Magnificent,
the rightful descendant of the
Maussenessen Black Cats of Hamburg.

First Full Moon night at 12 o'clock.

No eating neighbors allowed.

"Man has never been able to find the important link in the chain between the great apes and them. It is only a proposed idea that a link even exists. Humph! How they blow the idea around. Some of them, because there is this missing link, even think that they come from the stars while the rest of us were made from the oozy mud on earth. Because they love the illusion so much that they're the best, they always fail to turn the scale the right way.

"Devolution! Devolution finally corrects the scale of life on earth. By turning the scale upside down so that the smallest, most simple and complete creatures are at the top, while those that need the most to survive are at the bottom. These are the weakest.

"Tonight I am going to talk about the devolution of the species and how it affects us all. Now, you might ask, how does this affect my daily life. Well, for one thing it finally sets the record straight. And for another it reverses the home sapiens' arrogance and presents the prize to the littlest.

"Let us consider the aspect of smallness. What of bacteria? Aren't they much more evolved than the bigger species inasmuch as they need little to support them? They can evolve at a rapid pace and they can survive obliterations that would wipe out the meat and vegetable eaters."

At these words all the bacteria started a loud hullabaloo which caused the furry animals a terrible itch so the cats and dogs began scratching their ears with their back paws. The mice and rats sat up and scratched their faces with their front paws, while all the others moved about so that it looked like a rolling sea of animals which set up a terrific noise of scratching, meowing, yelping and other plaintive cries. The animals by now were muttering very loudly to each other in their own languages. The cats hissed in Felinese, the mice chattered in Verminese, the dogs howled in Canin and the insects scraped and fluttered in Centipese, as well as all the other scurry-animal languages.

The bacteria got more worked up, especially those found on the mice's coats, and set up quite a racket as they jumped for joy and did somersaults and screamed out "Awesome man, just awesome". They were finally getting the recognition as to their obvious (to them at least) superiority, and since it came not from man whom they would never even understand, it was a delightful treat. Their somersaults and screams of joy disturbed the mice so that they whimpered twice and rolled their eyes.

The bacteria, in fact, got so excited that they broke out into the Bacterial Species Anthem which they sing to the tune of "God shed his grace on thee":

Bacteria, bacteria God put his love in thee.
Bacteria, bacteria you'll find us everywhere.
In the food you plunge, the water wild and
all the milk for thee, there are billions of us
crawling daily all o-v-er thee.
We dwell on the skin of all we see; in the
gut and intestine we dive and swim with glee.
And when we're bad we make thee very sad.
Bacteria, bacteria God shed his grace on thee.

Well, imagine how shocked all the animals were, from the fleas to the mice and the pigeon, Esmeralda, and all the cats, too. They hadn't even known before that bacteria could even sing! Especially affected were those who had never even considered that their bodies were little habitations to millions of littler animals.

Mishmish gave a loud ahem to get the bacteria to calm down and for all the animals to shut up.

"Please, please, can we have some order here," she hissed. but to no avail. she had to resort to her heat scream, which was so loud all the animals paused in alarm.

"Let us continue," she said with a cheshire cat grin, her tail loudly beating the floor. And she gave a very stern 'thank-you' to the bacteria to quiet them down. She continued her talk on Devolution.

"Also we must consider the myriad viruses which pretty much have outsmarted man for aeons. They have a single purpose — to be more. They can cross a continent weaving their viral web in less than a day. They can also adapt and mutate very rapidly as needed. Now, aren't they to be taken very seriously in the who's who of the evolutionary scale?"

At these words, there rose up a very loud hullabaloo from all the many viruses present. For once, they were being considered with the respect they deserved. This filled all the other creatures with alarm for they feared, and rightly so, the terrible power of the virus. Everyone moved a little to the side and away from their neighbors. And when Esmeralda the pigeon ruffled her feathers from fright, all the mice hid their faces with their front paws.

"Finally," continued Mishmish, very grateful for all the participation, "let us consider that thing called the 'Spore'. Found in defecation and from all manner of plants, it is so perfect that it is free of gravity and can float through space without the aid of rockets. In fact, this tiny bit of the life-force, which can also deliver so much death, too, when it comes in the form of anthrax or bacillus, could have been the first inhabitant of this or any other planet in all the universes."

She stopped and trounced over to her water bowl to get a couple of laps of water, for all the hullabalooing and discoursing had made her thirsty. She ambled back and went on.

"We've only talked about the life forms that can be seen and measured. But what of the myriad universes of creatures so microscopic that they can only be postulated?

"Ok, to continue, what are the precepts by which man has evolved his idea of evolution? Firstly, there is the idea of survival of the fittest. And embedded in this idea must be the notion of adaptability. Doesn't virus win this contest hands down?" The viruses got very excited again and Mishmish swept her paw in front of herself and held it up to signal that they should quiet down.

"Then there is the idea not only of brain size but the idea of application, which we define as the ability to affect nature in some form — to force the surroundings and elements to serve the needs of man. By these I mean the ability of man to make sophisticated tools, buildings and to farm for their food, to slaughter flesh. Isn't this a construct that on definition is quite ridiculous? Man, because he is so weak had to do these things to survive. But the insect, the virus and the spore and all the other infinitesimal creatures survive without needing anything — being complete they adapt readily to most any environment and survive most any calamity that man can neither adapt to for long periods of time nor survive. Also look at the thousands of years it takes mammals and other creatures to evolve and adapt to their environments so that there are many species of a genus in all sorts of geographic locations. Viruses and other microscopic creatures only need hours not millions of years to do the same thing.

"Even though I am a very young cat, I have the advantage to better understanding. In our youth we're much closer to our origins — to original plasmatic matter. So to us things are so much clearer.

"And the fact that some of us were humans and have returned as animals means we have the edge or are up a notch in the journey of awakening when we will finally join with original matter and become ourselves pure being or the God idea.

"You see, it is a blessing to come back from the time of becoming which is all suffering and strife to the place just before fully merging with original matter, that is to say the step right before pure being. So are the animals. They really are not in a state of becoming because they are not striving to be something they are not. Nor are they striving to gain things as they have no need of things. Nor are they trying to control or kill others for causes other than food as those in becoming do.

"Is this all clear to all of you?", asked Mishmish.

The mice set up an excited screech, shouting together, "yes, yes, yes". The roaches beat the floor with their back legs, "scratch, scratch, scratch". And all the cats purred with delight.

"Ok, then I will continue," meowed Mishmish, ambling over to her water bowl and rubbing her mouth to moisten it, first having dipped her elegant black paw into the water.

"Why is evolution such a distorted idea? Man cannot think outside his cage or as they call it 'the box'. Everything in the world is measured only in relation to themselves. Everything written is written to support the idea that man is the highest or the peak of evolution, as I have said.

"Also we must remember that the father of evolution of the species, Charles Darwin was also a homo sapiens. Since the evolution theory was devised and formulated by man, it is biased and has a point of view that is very humanly oriented.

"Also, to make this point more valid, let's look at their beliefs. In their bible they write that God made them in his own image. Imagine the nerve! Imagine the ignorance!

"And piff, man has some very self-important and pompous ideas about himself. The immorality of those that believe they are the moral scions of the race, good people, but who commit grave sins. Such as the activist who thinks it's ok to be an amoral thief, not because he's an anarchist or wishes to damage the establishment's teat on which he suckles, but because he doesn't believe that what he's doing is immoral. No animal would ever stoop so low.

"So perverted has language become in the hands of modern man — anyone can twist the meaning into what suits him. The cult of modern-day individuality also includes language. Look only at the perversions of the nazis and modern warfare's desire for good press using warped words like 'friendly fire'!

"The words of a famous poet are humiliating today:

What a piece of work is a man! the paragon of animals!

"These 'paragons of animals', the college students, the future of their society are making pornographic movies. The youth idolize the worst and think it's wonderful to talk like morons and walk like gorillas. They engage in games of stealing, drug trafficking, and murder. There shoot their fellow students and teachers. The leaders steal from their companies. There is so much twisted, sick stuff in the society, it's a wonder it survives from day to day. This is not to say that there are not lots of good people. There are, and they do fine things. But the worst are full of passionate intensity and the good lack conviction. I tell you not only is devolution a sound idea, but it is a correct idea.

All the mice clapped and squealed with glee for they felt much better at these words. Maybe they were better than the cruel people who hunted them down with traps and evil poisons, and also used them for their barbarous experiments.

"Humans, because they make tools and shelters, and farm and so forth have put themselves on the top. They also have language and writing and they have art and music and science. Because of all this they think they are superior. Ok, man has all kinds of weapons to protect himself and to kill his own kind and other animals. But look at how helpless he is in the face of nature's destructive forces. I ask you, how can the puniest creature who wouldn't survive very long without a roof be the apex of evolution? Compare man to El Rashid, our flea friend, or to General Ethelred, our roach friend, descendants whose kind have survived 250 million years on this planet. Look at how the littlest creature like the flea killed half of Europe in a very short time by using bubonic plague. And again look at how fast viruses run about and how helpless man is in the face of them.

All the roaches beat their rear legs on the floor making a rasping, happy din. For here was another creature that really understood them.

"They were on earth when dinosaurs reigned," continued Mishmish with a little cough to quiet the din. "They survived the great meteor calamity that put earth into the ice age when all the dinosaurs died and new forms of life evolved slowly. They were there in their present form. Surely they should also be very high up on the scale of evolution, close to the apex."

At these words, once again the fleas did somersaults and all the roaches clapped their front legs and beat their carapaces with their rear legs, while balancing on their center feet.

"In reality," said Mishmish, "man should be last. He cannot survive without his tools he is so weak.

"Sure he has words, but we animals don't need words to communicate. And sure he has shelter which he struggles and strains to build or buy. But look at how smart we dogs, cats and mice are. We get to live there for free and we don't lift a paw to help acquire or construct them."

"Why is man the only creature who is always becoming and never even gets 'there'. He is prior to becoming, actually, because he is enslaved by this notion. Because he is always becoming he is basically dissatisfied and unhappy. Unlike the dog who even though he might be maltreated, still wakes the next day in a state of being for he lives in the moment and off he goes to find a new adventure because he is basically happy and satisfied with his lot. Even one of man's own, the famous Plato, recognized the dog as the only true philosopher.

"It is wrong for humans to anthropomorphize animals and treat them as though they have the same confounded emotions wretched humans have. (It is only the artifice of my human who is our medium that we seem to have human thought and emotions, but actually he is unable to write all this down in any other way than from a human point of view.) Poor man, how miserable his life outside of childhood. How he craves and struggles for earthly goods as if they would help him achieve happiness.

"You see there is becoming which is realized through thought which depends on logos or word. Then there is the state of 'become', not quite being pure being but the next step after becoming. As is said, 'you are what you think, whereas for animals it is you are what you are."

At the conclusion of her talk, Mishmish lay down quite exhausted. All the animals applauded loudly for which she was very gratified. After they had dispersed to their holes and other habitations, Mishmish, the black cat, stretched out, gave a yawn and a lissom stretch and promptly fell asleep where she lay.

© 2003 Dennis Shapiro A Cat's Tale