Said the Forest to the Fox

The fox-who-was-a-boy fled the wilderness into the wood, where forgetting has no place, into the wood that remembers every facet of the world, where all of history and knowledge flourish, where every tree tells a story made of words solid unspoken, as textured as bark. The boy-fox sought sanctuary in the thick, wrinkled skin of the forest, in its many branches of possibility, in its leaves that touch the wind and the sun’s golden gaze, in the rings of its ever-growing interior.

Deep in the forest, the boy-fox climbed up into a tree he found to his liking, a tree to represent all trees, a tall banyan that was itself a forest of trees, thick with roots and trunks and branches and leaves reaching up forever into the night sky, as if to touch the very moon and stars, where memory and knowledge dream.

In the arms of the tree, the boy-fox curled up to slumber, hugging his foxtail for warmth.  The boy-fox dreamt himself a gray fox, chased by hounds and nobles on horseback.  The hounds he alluded by scampering up a tree, not towering but squat, big around, and foreboding, not a banyan or any other sort of tree he’d ever seen before in any forest.  Its roots struck into the earth and rock like the giant hands of old witches.  Its branches spread like long, crooked gallows, and from them hung gray leaves like damp rags from men whose necks had long ago snapped.  The strange tree stood reminiscent of a swamp, though the earth all around was dry as dust.

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The Forgetter and the Fox

The Forgetter walked, wearing the clothes of the host and carrying the work of the poet in a pack on his back.  In his right hand, he held an empty cup, and in his left, a letter.  Or rather, not a letter so much as an envelope.

The Forgetter was also once someone else (as were the others), but he remembers not who he was or the names of those before him.  It has become his habit and his duty, as enemy and husband, to protect the present by forgetting the past.  In her one-room fortress, the Duchess waits for him, to forget, so she might continue preparing her dinner party.

But the Forgetter forgot his way home (to the house of the host), and instead found his way into the wilderness where he crossed paths with a gray fox who was a boy.  The fox-who-was-a-boy said to the Forgetter,

“When will the storms come?  When will you open the letter?  When will the Duchess throw her party?  All the guests were scheduled to arrive, but your dark cloak lingers longer than usual and your shield is wide.”

To this, the Forgetter replied, “Open the letter yourself.  I do not know its contents, or if I did, I’ve surely forgotten.”

And so the boy-fox snatched the envelope with his teeth and tore it open.  The fox looked to the cloaked figure who had held the envelope and beheld the Forgetter-as-Death, with sockets for eyes and gumless teeth.  The fox shrieked and fled from the Forgetter’s vacant gaze and bony fingers, but it was the Forgetter who feared most the envelope’s contents.

The Forgetter drew from the envelope, not words on pages, but only the letter F.  “What have I done?  How far have I gone, that I’ve reduced all words to this single letter?”

The Forgetter ran after the fox, but the fox was not to be found, so as not to be forgotten.

The Tall Tale Boy, Part III – “Birth of a Bean”

We tell lies to tell truth.  Let me first tell you the truth.  The greatest year of anyone’s life arrives at age 19.  I anticipated 19 throughout high school then treasured it many years after.  I wrote poetry, loved heedlessly, lived shamelessly.  At 19, one thrusts themselves into the world with pith and lightning, with newfound freedom to explore and grasp the world, yet unladen by the shackles of adulthood.

At 19, I began to grasp mortality.  My winter birthday followed the fall of my great grandmother’s death.  It wasn’t the first death I’d known, but it was the first to capture the passage of time, the end of an era; my mother’s family fractured with my great grandmother’s passing.  I mourned the loss of history and knew life would continue, irrevocably altered.

I also journeyed the furthest I’d ever been from home.  I flew to San Francisco to meet an older man with whom (I thought) I’d fallen in love.  Alas, I arrived and did not live happily ever after; in fact, I didn’t even get naked with the guy.  But I did stumble upon a Hare Krishna Parade in Golden Gate Park, watch the very first episode of South Park while sitting on Bob’s couch (yes, his name was Bob)—and also suffered such an intense loneliness and desire for another that I felt as if I’d conjured a ghost from his third floor bay windows.

When I returned from the West Coast, with months of 19 yet to enjoy, I remembered the bean Harmony Rae had given me the summer before.  I’d never really forgotten; I’d simply been unsure what to do with it.  But when I returned to Ohio, full of disappointment, I knew the bean must hold some secret!  I began carrying it in my pocket and sleeping with it under my pillow.  On moonlit nights, I would gaze obsessively into the bean’s uncanny sheen, its reflective texture reminiscent of both the veins of flesh and fissures of a gem.  All my dreams of love, all youthful aspirations, creative verve, and my deepest, darkest, subconscious wickedness bombarded the bean with intense curiosity and desire.

But years then passed.  I thought less and less about the bean.  It didn’t changed, though I did.  I took it with me after I graduated college, and as I moved from state to state.  I kept it—never anything more than a bean—with other keepsakes, sometimes on display with my knickknacks, but more and more often, I stored it in a box.

When Harmony called almost fifteen years later, I had completely forgotten about the bean, so buried it had become with the material remnants of history we squirrel away, only to remember when we go digging again.

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The Tall Tale Boy, Part II – “The Sun and Moon”

After three days of business meetings and tireless socializing, I fled Ko Olina to spend a day in Honolulu.  I planned to meet my cousin for dinner, but arrived in the city midday and so decided to wander Waikiki for a few hours in search of souvenirs.

Mark and I had exchanged several emails over the course of the week.  He feared I’d forget him while basking in Hawaii’s beauty; I assured him this was not the case.  He seemed taken with me after only a few weeks of online correspondence.  I, in turn, became taken with the idea of dating a kindhearted, submissive young man.  After three years chasing Portland kinksters for casual sex, it felt an appropriate change of pace to exchange sweet nothings with a romantic.

My thoughts of the Cuban reflected in the sun’s brilliance and warmth.  I welcomed the heat as a foreign, complementary element, a relief from the dreary coolness I’d come to expect.  Never before had I been to Hawaii, nor would I have planned such a destination for myself.  But fortune had smiled and brought me here for business.  I also felt as though fortune had brought a prospective love into my life.  I wanted to return to Portland with a token of my hope for a new beginning—and to let Mark know that I thought of him here, under this auspicious tropical sun.

silver sun necklaceI found a shop that sold jewelry handmade by Native artists, both of Hawaiian descent and otherwise.  I decided—a necklace was the perfect gift—and after perusing, found a pendant that suited my aesthetics.  When I asked a sales clerk about it, she replied in broken English that it was a symbol of the rising sun, renewal and rebirth.

I didn’t buy the necklace until the following morning, after debating the purchase with my cousin.  She advised,

—Buy what you would wear, just in case.

Indeed, like so many Portland men I’ve met, Mark disappeared after our first date.  I sometimes wonder if he were, in some way, my Rosaline.

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