Although I will expand on this in a separate post, I wanted to share with you what has to be my favorite song.  This is “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol.  The video may be of interest, but mostly I want you to listen.  And I mean really listen. . .to the lyrics.

You already know I’m a softee—a MAJOR softee, in fact—yet I must admit this song makes me cry each time I hear it.

Perhaps you flipped through the television channels one evening and stopped on a nature program because you could find nothing else worth your minuscule attention span.  As you listened to the narrator speaking about the African savanna and its many inhabitants, the focus slowly shifted to a herd of elephants and their struggle to survive the seemingly endless drought gripping the continent.

As you watched, the female leader of the group struggled to find water for her sisters and their children, including her own young child.  The search appeared futile in many cases.  It was then you pondered the fate of the clan.

But when the matriarch’s own daughter succumbed to the constant heat and malnutrition and dehydration, and when she laid down and was too weak to stand again, a tear welled up in your eye as you watched her mother lament with heartfelt cries.  She tried to help her daughter get back on her feet. . .to no avail.  Her sorrow rang out across the open land bringing the rest of the herd back to her side.

There they stood, young and old, sharing in a mother’s deep pain as she listened to her child’s last breaths faintly echoing goodbyes we barely understand.  You sat and watched, and finally you cried.

The elephants stood for some time over that lifeless body.  A mother’s tears wet the ground as she caressed her daughter gently, touching a life even as it ebbed away under a relentless sun.

When the time came to move on, you watched in amazement as each member of the herd stepped gently to the lifeless body and whispered silent regards for what was lost.  As they moved off into the distance, you recognized the heartbreak as a queen and mother turned time and again to look one last time, to wonder if she’d done all she could do, to see if maybe…just maybe a mistake had been made and her daughter was back on her feet after some needed rest.

Perhaps if you saw that, you came to realize what it looks like when elephants weep.  That spectacular display of emotion changed your view of nonhuman life for the better.

Yet only a few minutes later you again found yourself shocked into attention as the herd visited an elephant graveyard, an area where the bones of lost brethren lay scattered about the ground.  Your eyes could scarcely believe it as members of the herd paid their respects, some with gentle touches on a bone here or there, some with the silent swaying of those trying to contain sorrow that can’t be contained, and some with vocalizations that required no explanation.

Then the real shock came: You learned elephants always act this way around the remains of other elephants.  But more importantly, you also learned they demonstrate the same behavior for only one other species—humans.

At that moment, at that intersection between assumption and knowledge, perhaps you felt less disconnected from the natural world having seen that elephants respect our dead far more than we do theirs.  At the crossroads of true enlightenment, perhaps you finally knew what many have been saying for so long: Animals are emotional beings.  The evidence can been seen when you look into the eyes of a cat resting in your lap or a dog trotting by your side.  Most often, however, it’s harder to see, but it’s always true.

So then let us fast-forward to last month, to the reality of it all.  Let us face death and life together, but not through human eyes or events, at least not as central characters.

On September 11—what an appropriate date—in Denver, Colorado, “[a] male chow mix laid down in the middle of a busy street … to keep watch over its companion, a female German shepherd mix, after it was hit and killed by a car…”  Despite the imminent threat to its own life, one realized by several near misses as cars zoomed by carelessly, the dog stood its ground.  He simply didn’t want to leave the side of his fallen love.

Forlorn and ultimately defeated by animal control, he was taken away to a shelter for assessment.  No matter what other issues he might have, nothing can heal his broken heart.  It forever will rest in the middle of that road where a careless human struck and killed his mate.  It will forever rest at her side where he stood his ground in the face of heavy traffic, each metal monster coming nearer than the last until someone intervened.  There his heart forever will be.

Now let us fast-forward once again, or rewind if necessary, to a busy street in China, and let us set our eyes upon a very similar event.  “A dog was seen in the middle of [a] busy street watching over its friend, which had been hit by a car. It kept trying to wake its already-dead friend…”

The photos tell a story that words cannot encompass.  Especially the last image.

How we can make such an inhumane spectacle of the most humane act imaginable?  The very idea is beyond my comprehension.  Love poured out on that road as one dog struggled to revive and protect a fallen loved one.  One canine painted an image colored with the truest compassion, deep compassion from a reservoir we humans fail to appreciate or share.

Would you face such daunting odds under similar circumstances?  Would you stand against the threat of death itself so that you might stay at the side of one who’s fallen?  Are you willing to stand in the jaws of hell to protect your familiars?

There’s much to be learned from our animal cousins, especially when it comes to being humane.  You see, they have it mastered.  We don’t.

From something I wrote almost two years ago, something I myself need to be reminded of. . .

There is a world that exists solely within me, in my mind, in my very being.  This must surely be true of everyone, of all beings of conscience and reason.  It is a place separate from all others, protected; belonging to no one but the dreamer, a place of safety, where we are comforted and tranquility embraces us.  We feel secure there, surrounded by beauty unspeakable, wrapped in serenity as if it were a warm blanket on a cold winter day.  It is all things glorious to the individual who exists there.

I have no concerns in my world.  They have no place there.  It is a land where my troubles lay quiet, subdued by the purity of the place.

When I dwell there, I am surrounded by those who matter most to me, each of them a light which casts its brightness onto me, washing over me in hues of brilliance.  I can feel their love, their trust.  It holds me tightly, gives me wings, and drifts with me over the sands of time — stepping lightly when our feet need touch the shore.  No one may intrude upon this place, no one may interrupt the essence within.

With me in a chorus of music are my intimates, those who journey by my side, emotional and psychological companions collaborating with me to ensure success at a game which comes with no instructions.  We survive this game, but the best players do more than merely endure.

Outside of this place, there is darkness.  Therein lies that which is contrary to my Eden.  Therein lies reality.

This place tastes different.  The colors are wrong.  Shapes distort here.  I feel it from head to toe.  This night which befalls me here has no dominion.  I escape easily, stepping into a place and time outside of what is obvious.

I cannot accurately translate this place into written word.  It cannot be thus described.  Nevertheless, it can be known.

It is like the finger of the universe being drawn slowly up your back, across your shoulders, and around your neck.  It is the light that both warms and reveals.  It dwells within us and around us, encircling us powerfully, masterfully.  In its truth, we receive that which we need most.

Its antonym presents with disheartening difference, calling us friend while sharpening the blade of betrayal.  We soar in light yet suffer the dark anguish of trust.  How can one reconcile the two?  How can one survive the battering waves of humanity which attempt to rob us of our essence, preying on that which defines us and is so personally anchored to heart and mind?  We hold our hearts forth, offering them like a gift in the hopes they are found worthy.  We attempt to harmonize our souls, one with the other, sometimes blinded by desire to the inherent disruption.  The melody clashes.  We are drawn into a hurtful symphony of lives.  The world is simply too large to prohibit this naturally.

The thousands of places we could be at this moment, the many people we could be with, we find ourselves here and now, plunging headlong into something with little evaluation or circumspection.  You have undoubtedly felt this way.  My intellect tells me this is living.  My heart assures me it must not stop.

Sometimes we must rend our own hearts to ensure we feel.  I may choose to do so with my own hands, taking some undeniable portion of my existence and distorting its memory until it cleaves my heart asunder, leaving me alone in despair and depression.  Likewise, I may choose to aggravate — manipulate — an already precarious relationship until it explodes upon me, assaulting my emotions like some horrific invasion of my personal Eden.  And that is precisely what it is.

For those who care too much, who cannot ignore the chance to connect regardless of how destructive it might be, we, people like you and I, reach out and grasp the world with our arms.  We hold it near us and wait for a reaction.

And so we tear ourselves open.  We scrape and we cut, using reality as our blade, using it to reassure ourselves with the pain that we still feel and care.  Our crime?  Only that we cared too much, needing to verify our humanity by way of another regardless of the outcome.  Perhaps we even look forward to the pain.  Is there self-confirmation there?  Is that some kind of proof that we are flesh and blood and feel pain like everyone else?

What is it that teaches us the most memorable lesson?  Is it the success we enjoy fleetingly and hungrily, or is it the failure which strikes at the very core of us, inflicting the pain needed for memorialization?  Ay, it is in fact the pain, the failure that teaches us life's lessons.  That pain we want to avoid so religiously is the touch we most need to feel.

I reach for the emotional scars of lives and loves lost, and I trace their patterns absently, my fingers bringing forth stark resolution on the lessons of life.  I may choose to dwell in Eden.  I may choose to avoid human contact.  I could equally choose to ignore the world around me and pretend I am the only being on a far off world.  Those scars, reminders of pain and agony, tell me to mind the past, that it is real, that it teaches us lessons in the way most memorable to our carnal existence.

While we fly upon wings, lay upon grassy fields, enjoy the dusk of a thousand tomorrows, and dwell in our world of eternal light, the lessons of living are not learned by the reticent.  We must live, you and I.  We must understand that strength of soul comes from living, and living brings pain, and our pain helps us learn and is part of who we are.

Let our friends, our intimates, lend us their strength.  Let us ride upon their will in our time of weakness.  Let us rely on their resolve when our own falters.  Let us learn that the scars are reminders.  Let us feel that we may know we live.

Losses vex my job.  Three employees today, or thereabouts, found themselves without employment.

Where do you think that weight will fall?

You guessed it.

My need to escape that murderous paddock grows by leaps and bounds with each passing moment.

Hell, my need to escape it all likewise grows, from urban hell and professional suffering to literary languishing and creative comatose.

Too many faces seem familiar too much of the time.  Too many ruts hold steady to my feet as I try to walk a different path.

I stand dressed in the robes of a fake.  Driving to work each day resembles the journey of a thief stealing away my time.  The attrition of what matters under the weight of survival feels like so much unnecessary fodder bound to my weary soul.

It must stop.

Like so many times before, countless gestures meant to convince me of what is needed, I say again: What I do here must change.  What I do—period—must change.

The time has come to leave this blog to its fate.  That means far less material.

The time has come to leave this city to its fate.  That means getting the hell out of Dodge before it consumes me.

The time has come to focus on what matters.  That means familiars, writing, nature.  That means leaving behind all that has chained me to senseless piddling.

Sure, I hoped that one or two of our team at work would find their way to the unemployment line.  Sure, I hoped my spirit could bleed its essence into off-line and on-line writing.  Sure, I hoped I could snap photos of everything that caught my eye, and I could share that visual splendor with others.

Sure, I hoped I could win the lottery.

Anyway.

Remember when the writing mattered?  Remember when I cared about what I posted rather than who might read it?

Sometimes I wonder if I do.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost myself in this menagerie of mayhem called “The Internet.”

Sometimes I wonder. . .

Anyway.

Times they are a’changin’.  I want and need them to do just that.

So let’s be honest: The time has come to move, to get out of Dallas, to get away from the urban plague.  The time has come to focus on what matters.  The time has come to stop wishing for the curse to end.  The time has come to stop—period.

I find myself here:

Sans imaginations and their tendrils of thought, the annals of history’s history now bewilders us with darkness foretold.

Long shall nightmares visit upon us tales beyond that pretended in our most ghoulish visions.  Sup at the board of cataclysm, we will, for universes unfold in mayhem and yearning, in order and disgust.

Speak of yarns unfathomable and weep for the untold truth, for nary a shadow compares with such lightlessness.

Mine eyes set upon black vistas, my heart upon wretched stillness.

And so the time has come. . .

I am out of town this weekend.  What might appear here should be measured in that statement.

The blogroll must suffer the butcher’s cut.

Posts can never be the same again, can never be the empty promises made of garbage and tossed to the masses.

Life should never be this cursed.

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.

— Anatole France