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

http://cronehenge.blogspot.com
http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

Possum Tracks Revisited

 

 

 

Why Possum Tracks? Because in the authorial world, that's the creature with which I identify, a small despised creature that scuttles quietly through the night, seeking a few crumbs with which to sustain my ability to create. I mind my business and gather what the others who are more fortunate have discarded, or what they will not consume, the grubs, worms, bugs, of this writing life. I'm not ashamed of what I am. It is necessary for some of us to clean up after the riotous dinners of the much-lauded others.

With sharp claws, I dig after the grubs of truth buried in the dirt of history. I persist; my lineage is ancient. My family lived in Gondowanaland ever so long ago, and my descendants--rare, strange and endangered--still remain in far off Australia, which drifted away from neighboring continents and became lost.

I will speak of the past, of the meaning of writing about history and occasionally about writing, but the last is mostly immaterial since we've all become scribblers in this electronic (and probably short-lived) all-consuming age. I will talk about men and women and about their tangled relations, about love, power, character,good and evil, night and day, and about the small creatures of the earth and the flight of birds, moonrise and set, and about the signs of nature which exist to illuminate and delight even the most dreary life.

http://cronehenge.blogspot.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com

~~Juliet Waldron

Why Possum Tracks?

Why Possum Tracks? Well, this is a funny little beast, one of Nature’s abandoned experiments in creature creation. It just appeals to me, perhaps just because I’m nearsighted, a bit untidy, and enjoy rummaging for inspiration and creative sustenance in the small, messy details of life.

A possum leaves odd tracks, especially in snow, because his/her tail drags along behind. Like a Charlie Chaplin bum, a possum’s ungraceful and lumpy, scuffling along like a bundle of untidy, smelly rags. They can hiss and show you rows of teeth (50 in all) if you surprise them, and they can play dead and sincerely hope not to be eaten, but that’s about it in the defensive arena. In fact, they are mostly on the run, hoping to bluff you—or the dog—away, so they can scuttle off to safety.

Cheerfully omnivorous, they chow down on anything, even more so than Fido, who is notoriously unfussy about what he eats. They like insects, but Possums also enjoy fruit—who doesn’t--and will gravitate to apple, persimmon or paw-paw windfalls with delight. They have one particular claim to fame. As the only American marsupial, a family line which still has some survivors in isolated Australia, they are unique.