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"Hate your parents, Love your milk!"

Salamander Rushdie
24 October 1984
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The forest was perfectly still, and presently it seemed even the sparrows had departed him. The only disturbances were in the drowsy but omnipresent precipitation of snow and steady motion of the creek that intersected the place, transforming across its surface with simultaneous force and resistance down the way—murmuring passively in waves up the ice at the shore while occasionally separating chunks by its unabating action, bobbing along and distorted, lost, in the contained frenzy of its flow. A single snowflake will not cover a field… one drop of rain will not power a creek. Walking through the snowy woodland as his aversion to the icy overflow pushed him to lean further in his passage away from the stream, his eyes wandered over the rolling white ground, its casual dips and rises that suddenly reminded him of the wavy texture of the Merrimac. Scampering between the trees and across the unruffled tracts of snow were animal tracks, the broad pads of coyotes, cloven double hooves of deer, and minute clawed “hands” of squirrels and raccoons running through separate conduits and along the fringes of the already well-established trail he followed. Each imprint, in base form and how its preservation implied it had been used—splay, angle of impact, and spacing from one stamp to the next—told something of the personality of what creature had made it. And around him he was aware of much about the trees, whose spirits maintained and were revealed in the vertical dimension.

To look on this, frozen in the elements and in time, Dirk knew the incommensurable interconnectedness of all living things, each moved by the others as much as by themselves, whole as an individual but not complete… The trees had something very real in their singularity, yes, for were Dirk to wander the globe for the rest of his life he would never come across a repetition in their pattern, only new answers to the query of adaptation to surprise and amaze his creativity. But what they had become, were becoming, was constantly pressured and innervated by every other being, from the tiny sprout which by proper lighting cast a huge shadow over the field, to the great overturned tree whose frizzy roots were wrenched from the soil, the eclipse of a legend. It is over, It is now, It is always.

activism, amherst state park, biking, cool people, dragonball/z, evolution, excessive livejournal commenting, food, foul-mouthed women, hitting inanimate objects, immaturity, interstate '76, life, martial arts, mental/physical transcendence, myself, nature, not leaving phone messages, open attitudes about sex, oreo the guinea pig, philosophy, pushing the envelope, riding/throwing shopping carts, running up 'down' escalators, star wars, the olsen twins dying, writing