I dreamed I was in a forest. It was one of those gloomy dreams, maybe even black and white. It was night and we sat in front of a large fire. I was an Old English dwarf. Everyone was laughing at my jokes.
As a young boy …
I dreamed I walked with Jesus. We walked a dusty road. He talked; I listened. His voice was the sound of clear running stream water on a brisk winter day. It resonates in my mind to this day. Whenever I remember the dream, I feel the peace, love, tranquility and authority within His voice.
As an adult …
I dreamed I was at a California motel. There was a deafening roar. I stepped outside and looked to the north. A towering wall of water sped toward me. There was no time to run. Nowhere to go. No protection. Just wait for the water to crush me. Just wait. Then I wake up and wonder: ‘In California, can the tidal wave come from the north?’ Is that possible?
As an adult …
I dreamed I was a bird. I soared with abandon. My energy was boundless. I rode atop the wind. I was free.
Recently …
I dreamed I caught a catfish. I loved that fish. I was proud of that fish. He was about 18 inches. I took him home. At home I had five fish. I held another fish in my hand. He was a 10-inch catfish. His body was solid, muscular. My fish were beautiful. One was a sunfish. Then I noticed the fish in my hand wasn’t breathing. Then I noticed that none of the fish were breathing. I had no water. I could not save them.
Now …
Who can answer the riddles of my dreams? What are these mysteries embedded deep within my psyche? The answers come only in the embrace of dreams. I especially welcome the dreams that come in the ebbing darkness of the morning, for mostly in the morning, my stories are born. Late at night my dreams are elusive, but I feel their imprints on my memory.
They say we must dream or die. I believe them. Better to die than to never dream again.
-- David Madrid--
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Litter
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Litter
What an evil curse upon the earth is litter.
Thrown from the window of a moving car. Tossed on the ground at the city park. Dumped into the desert from the back of a truck.
Litter is a most grievous blot upon the land, upon our waters.
Litter grows. It multiplies. It’s ugly. It’s horrid. It’s sick.
We’re sick, those of us who practice litter. We spew garbage upon our very souls.
Once upon a time, we practiced keeping America beautiful. Now, we practice dumping waste, pumping waste, scattering waste.
We eat waste. We drink it. We die with its mark upon our soul.
The answer is simple. Pick it up. Pack it in; pack it out. Don’t dump.
Keep America beautiful. Keep our earth beautiful. Keep your soul beautiful.
I’m counting on you. You can count on me.
The End
This is what some awesome nature looks like without the litter. The top photo depicts a disgraceful act.
To me, there are not many animals as spectacular as a great horned owl. The rhyming story, The Great Horned Owl, is a true story. It was a different time when it occurred.
Now we would have called the Game and Fish Department or Botanical Gardens and let them handle the owl and help it heal. This story happened in about 1970, so our family did what we thought was right; we took the owl home, set him up in the dog's shed.
I write about that dog, Cassius, who I’ve declared the greatest dog that ever lived, and who is the main character in my books “The Dog” and “The Hunter.” In those stories I write of the dog’s fearlessness. But that owl was a fearsome creature, so utterly raptorial that the dog immediately surrendered the shed without so much as a snarl.
Looking into the eyes of the raptor was the first time I had looked into the eyes of a killer. There was no judgment in the eyes. No emotion. No joy. No sadness. No, there were only the eyes of a hungry predator. Killer eyes.
The great horned owl named Tedford by my sister Rose -- don’t ask me why, but the name fit -- eyed my dog, and you could virtually see the calculations of his mind: is the dog too big to kill? Is he worth a fight with my broken wing?
Cassius, the once-fearless dog, shook with fear when in the presence of the owl.
So we fed the owl whatever leftovers we had. He ate everything. Of course we gave him plenty of meat, but he ate leftovers: beans, tortillas, rice, whatever we put in front of him. He was always hungry, and I don't think he was a Mexican, so to this day it surprises me that he ate more than just meat and seemed to relish it so.
You hear the stories of owls turning their heads completely around like the girl in the movie “The Exorcist.” Yes, it is partly true: the owl has extra vertebrae in its neck that allows it to turn its head 270 degrees. If it turned its head completely around, that would be 360 degrees. So we’re talking a difference of 90 degrees. The owl has to move his head back into its correct position eventually.
There has always been the question in my mind: How did that teenager come to be battering such a large and violent bird with snowballs within that storefront? He ran when we stopped, so we never got the chance to ask.
Ever since owning a great horned owl – how many people can say that? – I have had a fascination with the great birds. Between 2000 and 2002, my dog Adobe and I walked the dark desert almost nightly near our home. It was a beautiful swath of Sonoran Desert undisturbed by the spreading Maricopa County sprawl of houses quickly encircling our little strip of Eden, if desert can be called Eden.
There in that desert dwelt a great horned owl. It watched Adobe and me from atop the spiny saguaros that graced that once pristine desert. One time the great bird flew over us. We heard the flapping of its great wings before we saw it. It flew about five feet over the top of us and disappeared into the moonlit night.
Sadly, that desert is gone now, overrun by houses and the empty lots that were to hold houses before the market collapsed. I worry about that owl. What happened to it? I hope it just moved on down the desert and still stalks the night.
One night Adobe was highly agitated, running up the stairs and out on the balcony and barking, then running down the stairs into the backyard where my wife and I sat. After a while, it occurred to me that something was wrong. Lassie couldn't have done a better job of capturing my attention. So my wife and I went up to the balcony to see what bothered the dog so.
There, sitting on the edge of our roof, was the great horned owl that ruled the desert and the greenbelt behind our home. The raptor was not bothered by our attention, even allowing me to take a photo, which I am searching for to post with this blog. And it did not move when we all, including Adobe, sat down and watched the owl as it watched the greenbelt for about 20 minutes before it spread those giant wings and flew off into the night.
Those were magical minutes. Though I know better, I like to think that the spirit of Tedford dwelt within that owl that ruled our desert and greenbelt. In the spirit of telling a better story, let’s just say that that is the way it is.
I wrote the poem "Ageless" on Valentines Day 1983 for my wife Jacquelyn A. Madrid. My feelings for her have not diminished in the years since. In fact, my love for her continues to grow.
Because this website has become about more than just fables and stories, evolving into a website that celebrates writing, I rededicate this poem to my wife by posting it here for you to read.
This photo was taken about 10 years ago when Jacquelyn was nominated for the Virginia G. Piper Humanitarian Award for her work in dialysis.She was responsible for writing and shepherding a bill through the Arizona Legislature that forced the dialysis companies to certify their dialysis technicians. She did that after watching the profits of the corporations take precedence over the care of her patients.
Needless to say, she was fired from her job and blackballed from the industry for standing up for the patients. Although we really needed the money from her job, her actions only made me love her more. So "Ageless" reflects my true feelings toward this compassionate and courageous lady.
My poem asks: "For who believes in loving forever and never loving less?"
I wrote the poem "Ageless" on Valentines Day 1983 for my wife Jacquelyn A. Madrid. My feelings for her have not diminished in the years since. In fact, my love for her continues to grow.