Tuesday, May 26, 2009


Heading downmountain for the train to work this morning I encountered a boisterous band of monkeys in the tunnel, with a familiar look on their faces. They were heading up toward my place. I say this because, although there are mountains and forests abounding in these parts, in which these rightfully arboreal denizens should be disporting themselves to maximum satisfaction, I suspected that my garden was playing a bigger role in their plans than quotidian mountains and boring forests.

As a monkey of some repute I have experienced and understand the magnetism of the illicit. Mountains cannot be illicit; they were there first. Forests were a close second. Neither has that titillating tingle. Having myself at certain times in the past been pretty close to the state of mind manifested in those monkeys, especially when I was in a fraternity, I could tell by their excitement where they were headed. They were headed for a good time. Not to where they belong in the true state of things, i.e., the bountiful wild fruit trees and vines that dot the mountainous landscape, nor to the tall trees whose crowns are even now burgeoning with nuts and whatnot, but to the Brady plum tree with no one around, to the newly abandoned Brady onions that await like pearly sirens, to the freshly alone baby carrots, to the individually incipient turnips, all calling with a music that has no equivalent in the merely conventional wild. They were heading for the simian equivalent of Las Vegas.

Their anticipation was obviously heightened at spotting the Brady guy himself, heading downhill at speed on that wheeled thing, for whatever boneheaded human reason he might want to get on that other thing on rails and leave Las Vegas way behind, all unattended.

The thought that they'd never understand human behavior didn't seem to bother them much.

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