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I am on
a bus, heading toward home. We arrive at an intersection
where the driver suddenly makes a u-turn. To my inquiry,
he says that the route has changed, and this is as
far as it goes. I get off and see a parked bus. The
driver
agrees to take me and other passengers
along the original route, so that I am heading home again.
On a mild December
day I sit by a fountain watching
small birds alight and, still thirsty, fly back up into the
trees.
Must I become something
like a moving line without boundaries or points along the
way, a pure difference without structure or definition—whence "a
man of hopeless feathers" for these birds not to be
wary of me?
We are
so enchanted with the human face of our gods that
only in dreams do we recall “kinfolk and ancestors
in the larger sense."
What strange
matter mated and continues to breed in the shadows
of our being, so that we no longer trace forms of life along
branches of the Tree of Life, but in drops of deoxyribonucleic
acid. Yet:
"For
Dr. (Tal) Dagan (at the University of Düsseldorf),
evolution is still shaped like a tree. 'Most of the evolution
is still going on in the branches,' she said. 'But over
billions of years, thousands of genes have shuttled among
the branches.'" [C. Zimmer, "Crunching the
Data for the Tree of Life." The
New York Times, 10 Feb. 2009.]
I stand
and stroll to a secluded grove where stone cherubs
smile in a clearing and frown behind bushes. Knowing where
you're going is not knowing that you're lost. Thus
all scholars are tricksters hiding in the thicket
of ambiguous directions.
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something
like: G.L. Bruns, “Becoming-Animal (Some Simple
Ways)” New
Literary History, Vol. 38, 2007.
"a man of hopeless feathers." T. Hughes. From, "Kafka."
"kinfolk and ancestors." P. Shepard, The Others: How Animals Made
Us Human. Washington, D.C., 1996.
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