now here is an interesting thing. i could set other adjectives to it, but there is no need. interesting will suffice.
there are those who travel here by referral. there are those who travel here by explicit link. there are those who travel here spun to dizzy stop before the url from some great index, or engine, swaying as their eye focus.
no matter who they are, or how they arrive, the log dutifully notes it. but what is interesting are the patterns that appear.
over the last two days, almost every traveler arriving to scratch an itch has landed hungry and looking for red meat. finding it, their attentions divert to neither side, happy to slaver over raw flesh, content to scent and lick and swallow blood. replete, eventually, they depart… perhaps to drowsy slumber under a tree, snarl what would be curses to another, or mutter odd reassurances to a pack mate that no, really, they have no interest in making a meal of them.
yet.
meanwhile, every traveler arriving to explore has landed quietly and their walking is slow… revealing an interest that is less pang of stomach and need and more of curiosity and perhaps even bemusement. they avoid the blood trails, the smears on the walls… choosing instead those things that nurture and nourish. i find it a comfort that they find them readily noted and easy to find.
then we have the traveler with purpose. their landing has an echo, boot heels connecting solid with the ground. their eye is keen, they scan, search, and when the target is acquired, stoop and closely examine. departure is as quiet as arrival, though no less accompanied by echo… footsteps down the long corridor of infinite addresses.
hungry wolves, or sharks, or piranha, these things care not for other than to fill their bellies.
explorers are gentle beings, content to drink in vistas and views, arriving with cameras and notebooks and recorders, leaving with their thoughts and perhaps a few images from which to spin their own dreams.
the purposeful are the ones who stir my own curiosity at the moment. especially those of decidedly washingtonian perspective. shall i say i know the gibbering continues, that you arrive here, now? does he weep to you of his hurt, but still fail to know it self-inflicted?
most of all, do you nourish this sickness that causes him to return here, again and again… unwelcome guest stealing from my porch, late at night, when the lights are out, and he can think no one noticed?
Green Tara and Medicine Buddha and the hard-won sweat of practices rest here. there is no more disturbance to hear his scuttling around the garbage bins each night. and the shriveled apples are strychnine free… for all he refuses them in fear of such end.
what an odd little raccoon. i stopped setting fresh fruits out for him long ago. the dehydrated apples are all that is left, evidence of kindness refused, rejected, until the thought of wasting fresh fruit on one too fearful to savor it seemed its own crime.
tell your little raccoon, sister seattle, polly portland… tell him to leave this place. there is nothing for him here. even the dried apples are turning to dust. tell him i will no more worry for his nocturnal scrabblings.
do you love him, little sister? then tell him to leave this place. move on. move through. find his healing in some place he has not filled with debris, with leavings, with gnawed corners and clawmarks.
place your hands to his temples and set his eyes elsewhere. there is nothing here. nothing at all.