Thursday, July 9, 2009

Part II: Into the World. Chapter 29: Cobweb

Today, during the afternoon's pleasant heat, I decided to take my Frogs out on a walk, in their new home-basket.  It was interesting to note their response to this walk.  They now knew that it was to be much further than before, thanks to our moisture-bearing basket, and they showed it (or showed it through trying not to show it.)  Mote was Frog-feet forward, leaning over the side of the basket, looking for new sights.  Mustardseed had much of the same interest, though trying not to look overeager, by keeping only one eye toward the opening of the basket.  And Peaseblossom, again in one of his Moods of Aloofness, sat in the back, singing to himself.

After traveling twice the distance of our usual walk, we came to a pond, thirty yards across and fifty yards long, and I put the Frogs in the water and sat myself down, glancing around and lighting my tobacco-pipe.

I looked out over the water, watching the Frogs swim around freely.  I discussed with my Friends that I was curious how deep the pond was, and after a short debate, Mote decided to see exactly how deep it was by swimming to the bottom.  With a kick and a flutter of droplets, she disappeared beneath the surface.

She disappeared beneath the surface.

And at that moment, watching Mote swim down into obscurity, I realized that my Frog Friends had certainly grown up, reaching their fullness, far from their lengthy adolescence and now able to take care of themselves, with or without me.  It was one of those rare moments when one truly knows the progression of life, seeing in front of him a single event that is somehow tied to all the other events of his life, yet is alone and apart as this pond was from the sea, and above all, makes him feel Alive.

I remembered to myself that the Frogs have no sense of Time, and only the sense of a narrative to give meaning and a feeling of progression to their lives - "No clock," they say, "can propel a Frog to his Pad."

My mind buzzed to connect the current moment with the perspective of the Frogs.  It came to me that perhaps the Frogs see each moment as I was seeing the current one - elevated and lucid, of a particular significance that spurns the brain forward in a fever of metaphor-making and pattern-recognizing, a moment that serves as an anchor for one's memories - changing both previous and upcoming memories by shifting the lens of perspective by an incalculable amount.

As my mind ran along this path, a certain bubbling began to froth the waters of the pond.  Up came a wriggling, frothing mess of green and red - Frog-feet slapping the surface of the water.  I picked up the tangle of Frog in my hands and set it beside me on the mud.

I was surprised to find not only my friend Mote... but also another Mote!  She had seemingly generated another Frog of the exact same smoothness and color.  Perhaps the only difference was that one of the Motes was a bit chunky and the other thin as a rod.

One of the Motes was a bit chunky.

The other was thin as a rod.

I opened my mouth to speak to Mote, but I realized that I did not know which Mote was Mote, and so closed my mouth again, patiently waiting for the scenario to reveal itself to me, as Frogs so often do.

There was a moment of silence expanding, damming up our will to speak.  I tried to discern as best I could, by squinting my eyes and moving my head, which Mote was the real Mote, as I could not rightly remember if Mote was the chunkier or the thinner of the two, as my memory held a Frog somewhere in between.

But my probing was discovered; one of the Motes, raising her head and meeting my eye, impetuously accused me of Mixing My Motes.

Mustardseed grumbled.

All of the Frogs and I spoke at once, trying to figure out what was going on.  Large Mote was particularly assertive, insistent on introducing a new Frog Friend, named Cobweb.

1 comment:

Mandy said...

This might be my favorite of all the Frog Blogs - I love it!