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Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Possum Soul/From the Bottom of the Bin

We're at the bottom of the bin, yes we possum are. Sometimes this bothers us, sometimes not. If I can borrow the royal (or insane) "we," I'll talk possum to you. I've been slogging away out here, serving the muse to the best of my ability, writing, and "scribbling, bibbling," as Amadeus had it, for many years now. My life feels like the movie 9-5, as others, newer to the game, vault over my back and climb the ladder to glory. I, instead, scuttle about in your moon lit backyard and hope that some drunken late night kid driver doesn't run me over, just for laughs.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. This is happening to my cohort right about now. We were born just before the "baby boom," which has been following us around on big loud feet ever since we saw the light of day. At first, we were remarkable, because we were the tail end of the "baby bust." Depression and a World War had left children scarce on the ground, but then, suddenly, we were a cool rarity no longer simply because we were young children. I remember this feeling of sinking popularity, so can relate to old Hollywood actors whose glory days have come and gone.  By the fifties, everybody had a hoard of little brothers and sisters, except of course for me, the lonely only. I early learned that a mysterious Something called The RH factor had removed that possibility, though I'm not entirely certain either parent was interested in more than the one semi-obligatory child.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. Very long ago--oh, eons--we marsupials were forerunners of that wildly successful line of placental mammals who have taken over this planet. We possum, parent tribe, alone remain in the West, tenderly snuffling about in hedges for bugs. slugs and worms and the lump of cassarole the old woman next door so thoughtfully threw out. We also like persimmon trees, grapes, berries, and fallen fruit in orchards. Sour or slimy or sweet, it's all grist to the old mill. Maybe, after the killer apes have finally blown themselves to smithereens, a few of us, the ancient possum, will still be shuffling about, nosing quietly through the ruins of what is so saucily termed "civilization."

~~Juliet Waldron


1 comment:

Judith Schara said...

Dear Possum,
I think the midwinter blues have hit you upside of the head. Please don't be blue. Those other speedy critters have no depth. Tell us another story - or a poem! I want a nice wintery poem.
PS Forgot to mention that is a very elegant new picture you have posted.