a modern bestiary

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  • amodernbestiary

    bestiariam munustolidus

  • amodernbestiary

    bestiariam munustolidus

  • to: jack nelsonfrom: jack nelsondate: december 3, 2012subject: introduction to the introduction (myth and legend, lore and tale)

    what we know of the mind is that it is a busy thing. we have made it so. synapses orchestrate the whims of what would seem to be a single thought or a simple act, yet in reality hundreds and thousands of actions are at play each with the next and all with the goal of fulfilling that want or desire. if you interrupt the chain, chaos ensues. a story is hardly different. letters, sentences, paragraphs and pages, all ready to play their part within the mind. alas, without context, without order, letters and pages incomprehensible they remain. so we order things to understand them, or better, to make sense of them. if we truly can make sense of things. it would be better to realize how it is we sense and the reasons we proclaim for doing so. but without an ordered mind ready to understand the order of things, perhaps making sense is quite quo. as far back into our collective histories as we can reach, we find that minds have always been busy and that they have always found ways to order the chaos that surrounds them. from the ancient sumerians and their pantheon of deities to the eastern taoists, from the aboriginal north island burial mounds to the quaking moments of colonial settlers, legend and lore have followed them all. and it is good to say followed, knowing that man and his kind may not have been first to any one of these small points in space and time. it could be that they were the only creatures so preoccupied with self that they alone cared to leave a record. lore is the collection things known as passed in story. stories are things told. things told are meant to be heard. we record what we wish others to know when our faulty selves will cease. we preserve our place, however fleetingly in the element of time by traveling with it, no longer bound by the frailty of a mortal frame. so, then, we become the story, the tale; passing a mere sketch of our existence into the hands of hopeful caretakers who often desire our tale more than we ourselves once had. to our tale is added the weight of their telling. a new tint. a new color. a new place. a new breath. by transcending time and space we climb to greater heights and sink to lower depths. we become the myth. we become the legend. a hairsbreadth of distance separates a myth and a history. it often depends entirely upon the person selling the wares. what is myth to one mind may be lifeblood to another. and may it be known that, aside from the minds we embody, it is only us who can account for us. after our bodies fade, who will live to confirm the reality of life once so vibrantly fluttering on this, our temporal plane? who is left to take and care for our stories as we would have wished, if we had wished at all?

    who indeed. as we pass, so shall they. legends grow. truth remains.

  • to: jack nelsonfrom: jack nelsondate: december 3, 2012subject: introduction

    many years ago i set forth upon a journey to discover what i, with growing realization, considered a marvel of the world. a subject written upon countless times but without a proper sum to sate my curiosity. no text to date nor translation of ancient hymn had brought to light what i knew to be the truth concerning this most important of matters. my mind wracked and reeling from tempestuous nights and feverish days set me on the edge of many a cliff. i would not let my temple rot. the mystery would not best what countless moments of solitude in meditation had wrought within me. a new creature i had become. how the earth shook beneath my gaze! humility left me as an autumn leaf leaves its brethren, without thought or care on the winds of an unsettled breeze. i set my affairs in order. i packed for long travels over vast continents both in and out of the mind. i steeled body and soul, leaving no weakness, no pain. having donned my cloak, staff in hand, i stepped out onto my front porch where i saw the rain dripping lightly from the heavens. i paused at the beauty and wonder of the moment. then i stepped back inside, closed the door and laid on the sofa for a nap. it was breezy too. rain and wind, who wants to step out into that? thus, i awoke from my slumber and, having only a few moments left before needing to settle in to a full nights rest (naps will do that to you every time) i decided to pen some thoughts about creatures i have met. the creatures presented herein are not listed in any particular order. no hierarchies or ghastly oneupsmanshippery. no fits of narcolepsy induced by the monotonous drone of purposefully useless lip flapping. yes. purposefully. oh, not that they wouldnt like that, sitting a big room in big chairs thinking big things. yet, the room is a small broom closet, the chairs are imaginary and the thoughts are things like, if i was a raincloud, i wouldnt rain on billys flowers because he looked at me funny the other day. where does he get off having flowers? im the pretty one and... oh look at those lovely cheese samples. you see, while most creatures survive on a diet of important things like food and drink and air, these creatures survive on the acrid stench that is manifest only in an environment of total self unawareness. their minds (if applicable) are much like tupperware; not the good stuff though, the stuff where the lid almost fits and theres a weird shaped bubble on the bottom because it was micro waved for too long or it sat too close to a burner while you were packing your lunch and forgot that youd just made tea on that burner and now the smell is filling the kitchen and you wish you hadnt eaten so much for breakfast because its really starting to get at you. inside the mind(s) exists only what can be described as what happens when a bit of egg salad is left in the back seat of an old car on a hot summer day.

    carry these words with you, dear reader, for though they seem mysterious and fanciful, they are with great reality living and thriving. these torrid

  • creatures may even tempt you with their doe-eyed gazes and their carefully manicured leg hair*. take heed! fall not prey, lest you be trapped as they are trapped and become as they have become.

    *depending upon the season, said creature may or may not have leg hair, or legs.


  • to: jack nelsonfrom: jack nelsondate: december 4, 2012subject: creature index

    bahrthreelde woestix p op s poophenconstance smiter the proudsuelfed g egremebahron

  • bahrthreelde

  • to: jack nelsonfrom: jack nelsondate: december 5, 2012subject: bahrthreelde

    if you give a bahrthreelde a task it may or may not accomplish said task. thats really not what matters. what matters is that the bahrthreelde, satisfied neither by itself or its surroundings, only accomplishes what it truly can; a simple game of tug o war with its own inability. the danger spreads when the bahrthreelde leaves the confines of its own dissatisfaction for the supposedly greener pastures of another. silly barbs are lobbed without aim and the resulting playing field becomes littered with ineptitude, making a mess of what was once, possibly, a decent place to have a quiet lunch. said greener pastures of another may be actual greener pastures (that have now become only a slightly lighter shade of tannish-yellow due to said recent arrival) or they may be pastures of the mind. regardless, once the bahrthreelde surprises itself with the revelation that there is no remaining fauna to wilt with remarks about its slow rate of growth or how, in spite of its own lack of ability to be fauna it intuitively knows that to live on the other side of the pasture would be much better, proceeds to produce a garden spade, chop the faunas roots and plant it on the other side of the pasture where it soon expires, the bahrthreelde begins its retreat to a former abode. the ensuing exit dance has been described by social anthropologists and pharmaceutics sales representatives as a nearly perfect hybridization of moderately motivated sleep walking and the personal response to six hornet stings to the armpit. which armpit, precisely, is a matter of continuing debate. to spot a bahrthreelde in the wild, simply step outside to where any number of objects may be. you will most likely find the creature engaged in a coy game of wits where (it) pretends the object of interest is not satisfactorily existing and proceeds to admonish it for not being either better or worse than what it is. task or no task, a bahrthreelde pretends beyond reason that it is capable... of something. what they are most capable of, sadly (or plaintively if you ask them) is being a bahrthreelde.


  • to: jack nelsonfrom: jack nelsondate: december 7, 2012subject: woestix

    thunder rolls across a darkened sky. sweat pours from a disparaged brow. hands tremor. skirts ruffle*. all in the wake of the onslaught of the dire woestix. addressed in an ancient conversational haiku:

    what is it, edgar?the sun has quit, now we die.it yet shines. please leave.

    no matter the variety of woestix (some smell of cranberry jelly spiced with fear and indigestion while others look like constipated meerkats) distress must be hurled. it is a form of currency. where no duress exists, the woestix has nothing with which to pay, and therefore is argumentatively impoverished. note the striking difference between impoverished and sterile. attempting to sterilize a woestix is to take ones sanity in his own hands, place it in a blender and press puree. grumble and rumble as they may, the woestix thunders and rolls against itself. to spot a woestix in the wild, simply imagine a situation that is less than optimal an