A Miraculous Feat of Absolute Nothingness

We spend most of our time pretending we are not animals. We'd like to imagine we are somehow better than the pigeons outside of our windows, or the possum that takes its nightly stroll outside our apartment complex simply because we have the dignity to order ourselves little outfits on sale from gap.com. But when we see, for instance, a hummingbird, dead twitching on the ground, we remember that despite our 6" to 1' walls keeping creepy crawlies from our beds, we are indeed at the constant whim of nature. Maybe that's why its so intrinsic to our species that we find metaphors in animal behavior. It's probably easier to stomach than taking nature and all its cruelty at face value.

I  was sitting drunk on the porch in San Antonio, Texas, a pit-stop in my ill-advised cross country journey to find solace, or at least some creature comfort. It  was a sticky, summer cicada evening, lubricated by at least two of Mia Ramon's frozen margarita concoctions. The Ramon's backyard sits across from a wooded, or maybe shrubb-ed, nature trail. A family of deer slowly bobbed their heads as they crossed the trail into the chiaroscuro lit yard. In my inebriated, raw state I could swear that the deer was seeing into my soul. Now, I  know that deer do not have the ability to see into a soul, or even do very much well at all, for that matter. Deer have surprisingly guttural voices and stupid antics for a creature so seemingly graceful. But, that night, full of tequila and warm feelings, I  knew that deer was my mom. 

Why not? At that very moment, we were listening to the sound of cicadas rubbing their well-rested legs together after having freshly emerged from their 13 year subterranean sabbatical.  Some spooky, magical (or scientific) reason told the cicadas to stay asleep until they collectively knew that this June was their June. Perhaps they didn't know that in 4-6 weeks after their songs had played out, and mating commenced, that their husks would litter the sidewalks of the San Antonio bike trails, a sight I never encountered because I  had already skipped town. It's hard not to see something like that, an insect waiting so patiently for that month full of music, and not think that maybe its magic. 

When my mom died, I suddenly knew why people would choose to believe in something that didn't make any logical sense. People you love can't really just go, right? When I  saw her body at the hospital, it  was just that. A body. It  was the first dead body I'd seen that wasn't gussied up by an over zealous mortician. It was the body of someone I loved with no life in at all. That's why we believe, or want to believe, in magic, whether it be David Blaine snatching a quarter out from behind a Real New Yorker's ear, or Jesus Christ making sure everyone got the Friday fish platter.  

After some prolonged, tipsy eye-contact with the deer, it walked back into the darkness it arrived from. I   left San Antonio a few weeks later, never having spoken about the incident with the deer, and full of comfort from my loving friends. I know they would've understood it, but some moments feel too raw to speak of. 

Last night, while eating a delicious pasta Will made, a family of coyotes sulked out from the tinderbox forest of Griffith Park. Underneath the baseball stadium lights, we were the only pair left in the park on an LA cold October evening of 60 degrees that shooed everyone else away. The coyotes wandered into the clearing, not even paying us a glance, clearly in search of today's fresh garbage. A short while later, after she had been certain the coyote gang was elsewhere, a doe entered the grassy arena. It  looked, again, right into my eyes. If I  hadn't have been so god damned happy, maybe I  would've thought it  magic. Maybe if I  had been searching for some profound clarity, or meaning I would've thought it  was my mom again. But last night I could see the deer for what it was. A fellow diner in Griffith Park, and we both commenced in eating our dinners. 

Finding meaning in the coincidence is not the act of a foolish person. But a person who chooses to believe in magic. Choosing to believe in magic is part of the narrow line that separates us from our pigeon, coyote and cicada brethren. If I choose to believe that we are amoebas bouncing off of one another in dizzying chaotic speed, I would not get to experience profundity of a narrative in my own life.