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Bambi, a life in the woods — felix salten

I read it in first grade and it accelerated the development of a profound sense of consciousness and independent thinking and fortified my existing love for animals/nature/the environment. I was already an overly existential child and it helped me learn to focus on beauty and joy in the face of death and suffering! — The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees. One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip. "It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other. "No," the other leaf answered. "So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch." "You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf. "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next." "The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again." "Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?" "It is really true," whispered the second leaf. "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers." "It makes me very sad," added the first leaf. They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall? ..." The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?" "We sink down. ..." "What is under us?" The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows." The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?" The first leaf answered, "Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it." They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling." "That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to." "Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf. The other replied, "No, we'll let be. But—what else shall we talk about?" She was silent, but went on after a little while. "Which of us will go first?" "There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her. "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid things..." "Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them." "We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently. "We've outlived many, many others." "Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly. "Not in the least," the first leaf assured her. "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case." "You're fooling me," the second leaf said. "No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me." "Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched. "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are." "Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more. Then they were both silent. Hours passed. A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops. "Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..." Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.  Winter had come.

@taterhole

Sep 8, 2024

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Peckin by Shel Silverstein

The saddest thing I ever did see Was a woodpecker peckin’ at a plastic tree. He looks at me, and “Friend,” says he, “Things ain’t as sweet as they used to be.”

@pan

Feb 21, 2025

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Reading ray young bear

This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me. From His Dream the air hadn’t changed  since she last saw her mother. the land was cover with frozen  rain. she knew a couple of days  ahead that the spring would disappear. she kept reminding to her husband,  it’ll have to come back.  i don’t think it’s really over with,  but he always seemed disinterested.  a look of worry in his eyes.  even as it was snowing,  thunder rolled across the roof  of their home and they couldn’t  help glancing at each other  with puzzled faces. bodies  of disemboweled animals flashed  in their minds,  the children ran about in play  but when they ran into their father’s  eyes, they could see the light  of their rooms, the changing contrast  of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in  the figure of seals on a tree. the second time they ran,  the wind made sounds as if  there were people with their mouths  up against the house, talking. as it grew colder, the snow made  more noise against the plastics  coverings over the windows. when the children looked outside  they could see the clouds piling up  on top of each other, each group  darker than the other.  across the room where their mother sat they could distinctly visualize  the changing color of her lips.  teeth biting into her skin. they followed as she circled  the room, spitting the chewed willow  all around the windows. their son has been gone most  of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him  to hunt alone. he always seemed to know  what to do. old enough to be gifted  naturally to keep away from flowing women, he had spoken about sliding down hills  on his knees, picking up the snow  to his ears and hearing the thoughts  of deer, bringing packed bodies  of muskrat and duck, the different  crusts of blood on his shoulder bag. from a distance, his father  could see his tracks heading  into the thickets. small owls guided  their way through brush by the touch  in their wings. he remembered a dream  he had that morning of giant fish  and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters  of a river he had never seen.  he and his son cornering a small horse covered with fish scales, bearing  the head of a frightened man.  its thin legs and cracked hooves.  somewhere in this land he knew  there was a place where these creatures  existed. he had also been told of a hole where the spirits spent their days,  watching the people before they crawled  out, traveling through their arcs  in the sky towards evening like birds. on the way back home, thinking his son  had circled the forest, he crawled  across a section of river which was still  covered with ice and fish entrails,  previous spots where he had taught  his son to use a blanket to block  out the daylight to lie there  with his barbed spear, waiting  for catfish to lumber out from the roots  of fallen trees under the ice.  although he felt a desire to crawl  straight across without looking  down into the river bottom through  the clear ice, something caught his eye,  as he peered into the bubbling water,  he saw the severed head of his son,  the hoof from his dream,  bouncing along the sandy bottom.

@archibald

Jan 19, 2025

Top Recs from @chlonline

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Calling do not disturb -> “moon mode”

Shoot! Sorry I missed your call, I’m in moon mode.

@chlonline

Apr 20, 2024

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Salt and vinegar chips

These are my favorite food (only slight hyperbole). I recommend, in no order: -Kettle brand -Kettle brand air fried -7/11 -Lay's Kettle Cooked These chips are so strong that they will burn your tongue. They are chemical perfection that make the systems in my body dance. They are so rock and roll. No matter what size the bag, I will probably finish the bag. I always eat the folded ones first, and then move to the unfolded ones.

@chlonline

Jan 31, 2024

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walking home

If you’re within an hour walk from home, you should just walk home. I understand taking public transit or an Uber there to be on time, but you’re not rushing to get home. Thus, walk.

@chlonline

Feb 5, 2024