I just finished watching Big Fish. I got to thinking while I watched it. I'm not sure how coherent this entry will be - just stick with me for a while.
There's something I've forgotten. I get that way sometimes, my mind does tend to get stuck on the narrow focus sometimes. There are times when that is a good thing but there are others where it is the worst thing that could happen. When it gets stuck on the everyday things - did I remember to pay the phone bill? (Always a biggie.) Do I have enough food for the cats to get through the weekend? Oh god, why is my truck making that strange noise? - things tend to get a little ordinary, dull and flat. It's rather like I'd envision hell to be, if I believed in it. No eternal flames and pitchforks, just neverending domestic monotony.
Oh yes - the thing I've forgotten. I've forgotten the stories that make my world go 'round. Like this afternoon, the mockingbird in the pokeweed...
In my yard, there are several mature plants gathered around the remains of an oak tree that was hit by lightning a few years ago. I hadn't really noticed them until today, although they are brillant right now with their fiery reddish purple stalks, big green leaves and clusters of berries. Some of the berries are still small, hard and green but some have decided to go ahead and realize their full potential of being large, plump and black. This in itself can be a sight to see but to the mockingbird who lives in the tree near the driveway, it was the platform for its very own Olympic event.
That mockingbird did everything it could to get at the plumpest, blackest berries. It would turn its head one way, then the other, as if deciding which way would be the best way to snap them up. Sometimes, a simple neck stretch was all that was needed but sometimes, that one berry called for more extreme measures.
After that bird took stock of the situation and almost before I realized what was going on, it set it's feet just right on that stalk and flipped itself upside down - right where the once forbidden berry was now within range. With a flutter of wings, the mockingbird would be right side up again and looking for the next conquest.
Sometimes things didn't go as planned, though. Perhaps its feet wasn't planted just so or perhaps its balance wasn't just right. Perhaps it didn't set its tongue right as it went under but every now and then, that bird went hurtling toward the ground. While several of the cats thought this was a wonderful idea - they like free buffets and all - the mockingbird would just get up and go back to the business of getting that ever elusive pokeberry.
This is what I need. Not only me, but the world needs stories. They are like water for the soul - when the stories are plentiful, creativity blooms but when there's a drought...we're back to pondering cat food and phone bills instead of the idea of free range cat food (I saw a cartoon of that once - there were mice everywhere) and what the first obscene phone call was like (oooo Mrs. Lassiter, you naughty girl...what nice ankles you have!)
I remember now.
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