It’s opening day of the three-month-long citywide bow-hunting season here in
I planned to write two entries on the subject, had a couple nifty titles planned, one for eloquent arguments about deer and human populations, the causes of those populations, family tradition, keeping in touch with one’s inner caveman, all the usual hunting debates, and one for the raw disgust and rage and sadness I feel over the matter and the people who take part in it. But I’ve written many columns and letters on those subjects since moving here, and the idea of writing it all over again didn’t hold much pleasure for me. If I wanted writing to be a chore, I suppose I would have made a living at it. I think creativity needs to have a spontaneous and joyful birth, not an outline.
Still, within a few miles of me as I write this, there’s a deer being shot, leaving orphans and friends behind. I have little doubt that phrase strikes most people as ludicrous, sentimental, anthropomorphizing, blah, blah, and blah. And that’s the problem. As long as humans set themselves apart as unique and superior, they’ll always have contempt instead of respect for other life.
Winter is coming. It was about thirty degrees when I headed out this morning, but I put on too many layers. The sun is still packing heat. I’m longing for the first snow, and hoping for another big one this winter which will shut down the human world for at least a few hours, muffle the noise and stop the cars. I’ve been busy making plans for a trip which will include a vegetarian festival, a farm sanctuary, a whale watch, a primate protest, veggie restaurants, a great arboretum, concerts, real bookstores, a visit with my long dead mentor Henry, and waves every day instead of only when the wind blows a certain way. There’s joy. As long as I don’t think about that deer. Just need to keep myself unaware.