Conrad to Planet Earth
Vernon called the other day. Vernon, the
brother that puts the blog together. I didn't know what a blog was until he
brought it up half a year ago. Still don't. He worries about me all the time.
For no apparent reason.
"So whatta' you think,
would you like to try something new?"
"Something new
what?"
"Well, you know, a new
blog entry."
"What's wrong with the
old ones?"
"Nothing, nothing.
They're just, well... old."
"What's wrong with old
stuff. I'm old."
"I just thought you
might want to spread your wings a little, think of something new.
"What, you think
thinking is easy? I can't do it much anymore. It bothers me. Never did do it
well. You were always the smart one. Mom said so."
"Well, okay. I was
trying to be helpful. Think about it."
"Leave me alone and I
will. Don't hold your breath."
We said goodbye (that bothers
me a lot nowadays, for no apparent reason), I told him he was starting to sound
like Monk's psychiatrist, and drove to Walgreen's in town to pick up some meds
without which Conrad would not be thinking about anything, ever again.
Waiting in the drive-thru
with all the other addicts, I noticed a single red ant hanging on to the hood
of my truck just a foot away from my face on the other side of the glass. There
are no red ants at Walgreen's, only acres and acres of asphalt. Ants hate
asphalt. I knew this ant. His home is in a small hill right where I park my
pickup under the carport. He's got lots of buddies, probably some family, and
thinking about that another thought came to me.
The Romantics of the
nineteenth century had a belief in the sentience of all living things, ants,
trees, critters of all types, that supposes they have thoughts and reason, just
like we do, but on another plane, and that as their body size gets closer and
closer to ours it becomes more and more noticeable. Their awareness, I mean.
I know for a fact there's a
family of crows in my neighborhood that know the difference between me coming
out of the house and Pam doing the same thing. I'm the guy that brings the
scratch feed they eat. Pam's the one that throws rocks at them. Smart?
Sentient? Maybe more than you realize.
So what about the ant on my hood clinging for
its life at Walgreen's? Was he aware of my existence? Well, he'd have to be
thinking something, even at that level of sentience. What might it be? What
could its equivalent be to our level of sentience? Could his ride all the way to
Walgreen's from his home out on Baker's Branch be the equivalent of being
abducted by aliens and taken up into the mothership as it would be for you or
me had the same thing happened to us?
Come on now, think about it.
If he made it home safely, and scrambled down the side of my truck to Hillhome
to be greeted by an anxious family desperate to know where he had been for so
long (for how is time measured by an ant?), and why such a strange look on his
face, would they believe his wild tale? Would he say, "You're not going to
believe this." Would they then say, "Calm down, calm down, Red. It's
okay. You're home"?
I will say this, the first
thing I did when I backed under the carport was look for Red. He wasn't there.
He had been, all the way to the head of driveway. I'm bettin' he jumped to the
ground as soon as he recognized his surroundings (wouldn't you have?). Look, we
may have a problem here. Both of us. You, me.
My brother told me to think
of something, so I did. He didn't tell you to spend however much time you did
reading about what I was thinking, did he? So you're in this as much as I am. There's
lots of crazy people out there. If I'm one, you're one, too. You don't tell on
me, I won't tell on you.
Deal?
© 2022 Conrad M. Vollertsen
Comments
Post a Comment