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What Reading Does Ta Ya
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Bombay the cat has never been to the jungle, but he reads about it any chance he gets. The only wild animals he converses with, besides Monique the cat, are the sheep Meneer Vandenputte has roaming his small valley. Sure, Rudd the hound dog likes to bark orders, but Bombay is unrelenting in his somber influence over the herd.
Winter time is the worst time to be an aristocrat amongst a herd of sheep. Although this winter is mild, the sheep’s usual open-mindedness is still daunted by the cold. They shiver together in a large group, huddled around the only television, as the wind picks up dry snow and playfully twirls it around them.
Bombay sits perched on an old birch tree, reading a Gerald Durrell. He occasionally looks up to see the wooly white bottoms dancing with the wind. “Guyana,” Bombay laughs at those bottoms shifting back-and-forth in unison, “if only I was in Guyana would I be having some real adventures!”
A gust of wind blows up the tree and ices Bombay’s eyes cold. He tosses away the end of the joint, marks the page with his photograph, and jumps down to find shelter in the barn; only a short tarot across the corral.
The wind has frozen the barn door shut, but no matter, Bombay sneaks in a favorite entrance through the broken loft-vent. He lights the lantern resting on a stool and makes his way to the far corner where a cozy blanket is draped over a bundle of hay. Burrowing himself in, Bombay wraps his tail under his hind legs, and again pulls out the book to read.

“We left the flat, lush area of cultivation and walked suddenly into an astonishing landscape. Stunted, moss-tangled trees grew in little clumps, and around the trunks straggled a dusty and sparse-looking carpet of low growth. In between theses little oases stretched great barren areas of sand, white and glittering like a new fall of snow. The sand itself was fine and white, and it was mixed with millions of tiny mica chips that reflected the morning sun with the glittering brilliance of a landscape of diamonds…”

Bombay looks up from the book as an icy wind scratches and howls against the barn’s thin, boarded walls. Troublesome thoughts of work and career, travel and home, friends and family, are what keeps Bombay staring off into the far dark corner. Monique, startled when coming up the ladder, discovers Bombay glaring toward her.
She understands this look and quietly finds a nice, warm spot to lie next to him. Bombay nods his head after some time and looks over at Monique. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close.
“How you doing, beminde?” he smiles.
“I’m okay,” she smiles back.
Bombay leaves his arm around Monique while spreading his other paw to keep the book open. Monique tucks her head under his arm, takes a deep and satisfied sigh, and closes her eyes. Bombay kisses the top of her head before focusing again on the book.

“As we turned to enter the wood… in the upper branches of the trees was a group of five red howler monkeys, brilliantly lit against this background of greenery. They were large and heavy creatures with strongly prehensile tails and sad chocolate-colored faces. They were clad in long, thick, silky fur of a colour that defies description. It was the richest and most brilliant mixture of copper and wine red, shining with a metallic luster that is rarely seen except in precious stones and some species of birds…”

While still reading, thoughts of where his next paycheck will come from makes Bombay trail off. Just because he arrives for work at 8:30 each morning does not mean there will be a job for him that day. Sometimes Meneer Vandenputte does not even come out to check on the sheep until late morning. And by that time, Bombay would find himself stealing apples from the horse farm half a mile down the road.

“…The anteater galloped on over the plain, hissing and snorting down his long nose, his stunted little legs thumping on the sun-baked earth… He (the narrator) was off his horse in a second, and, hanging grimly to the rope, he was dragged across the grass by the enraged anteater...”

And Monique, Bombay begins to trail off again. Her kindness has always put a smile on his face. She comes by some evenings to share a joint and hangout. They have known each other only a couple months now, and by spring, he will move yet again. The book now captures his attention once more.

“…The anteater had incredible strength in his thick bow legs and shaggy body, and it was all the two of us could do to bring him to a standstill.” “The wild animal struggled madly with all his energy while Bombay and the Amerindian wrestled it to the ground. Once down, they wrapped it in ropes and put it in a sack. With the beast captured, they,” “sat down to have a much needed cigarette, feeling rather pleased with themselves.”

Bombay continues the story without reading: “While the Amerindian watched over the anteater, Bombay went back to where Monique was holding the horses. She did not allow him to prepare the horses until she had thoroughly cleaned his fur. Bombay was nursing a cut on his paw when Monique playfully squeezed his waist and made him jump out of fright. He did not have time to react more before Monique wrapped him in a hug and kissed his cheek.
‘You little devil,’ Bombay laughed turning to her. Monique’s eyes were playful as she leaned in for a kiss.”

The barn has become ominously silent since the wind has stopped scraping the outside walls. Monique is in a deep sleep, but she abruptly snorts herself awake. This unexpected noise that accompanies her small jump brings Bombay out of his story. His arm is numb from being around Monique but he leaves it there as she snuggles closer and falls back asleep. He, too, falls back into his story, but this time, from under the hay, he finds his notebook and pen.

“Our river boat is long and narrow. The flat wooden deck is shaded by an identical flat wooden roof. It is up here Monique and I relax cross-legged with a freshly rolled joint.
“The river itself is not very wide; heavy growth of trees and bushes branch into the murky water from their high banks. The light blue sky above us is a river in itself, as the same trees branch upwards.
“Monique hands over the lit joint and turns to point out a large bird in the trees. Its large beak is a stunning orange and its feathers are shinny coppers and reds.
“I silently reply with a nod of the head and take a toke. I close my eyes, too, only for a brief second…”

The warm sun on Bombay’s face makes him slowly open his eyes. The dry air reminds him where he is. He holds his paw up to block out the sun and looks around the barren desert; nothing but sand and sticks. It has not been long since he thought about Monique. It was just last winter they were keeping each other warm in Meneer Vandenputte’s barn. He wishes she could be here with him crossing this African savanna. But he knows she could not leave home.


Italic words are direct quotes from Gerald Durrell’s THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE


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What Writing Does Ta Ya
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The call came as a distant horn; deep but muffled, with the strength of an adventurous traveler. Three long and drawn out bellows, each with the same amount of quiet intensity, woke Hoot from his novel daydream. “The World is Mine” by William Blake was what he was reading. He is now glaring over his hardcover book into the dawning distance from the top of his pinetree perch. The first hint of day (a lightening blue of the night sky) is a ribbon along the mountain horizon. The surrounding forest still remains dark, ominous. Hoot, with his powerful owl eyes, can distinguish four mountain ranges in the infinite wilderness; heavy with pines. His ears are ringing of the mysterious horn, his beak and feet are tingling.
The forest’s calmness, the silence of the trees, the stale air are eerily noticeable. Hoot sets down his book, open, with the pages facing down, and straightens himself on his perch to attentively watch the horn of the rising sun.
Orange his feathers are, with strokes of white paint. The cut-out of an oval body and circle head leaves him resting forward on tinny crowned feet. Two tucked wings draped over neck-less shoulders support a bare chest. The head hosts two large yellow eyes that reflect a dark purple sky. A simple black beak is a downward triangle. Although two-dimensional, Hoot is nothing less than a real owl. He has character, expresses a somber inquisitiveness, and entices communication. It only so happens Hoot is the imaginative creation of a ten year old girl.
Glued together on the front cover of a blank writing notebook, Hoot came to life in Olida’s fourth grade art class. She made the owl believing he will keep the writer company through travel and adventure. While it was Hoot himself who had an adventure on his way into creativity.
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A large gust of a wind suddenly blew down cold upon Hoot. Him sitting there exposed on top his pinetree perch and his feathers flying about. The wind did not come from the distance, for surely he would have seen it, but the wind came from above, surprising a flood of great strength.
Hoot’s first reaction is to save his book. He bends over grabbing the spine to close and tuck it under a wing. The wind, finding Hoot slightly off balance, puffs a little stronger and sends him off the branch. Quick instincts have Hoot spread his wings. In doing so he drops his book. Watching it drop, the book slowly hits a nearby branch, spins violently, the pages flipping open. Before Hoot can make a late attempted rescue, the wind lifts his wings, soaring him high into the air.
Nervous about the quick rise, Hoot tucks in his wings out of fear of flying too high. He free falls, tumbling and flapping. Instinct again has him spread his wings. The wind corrects his fall, lifting him higher and higher. The dawning sun is in the distance, the direction Hoot finds himself flying. The crest of the sun breaks the horizon and a deafening sound of a horn bellows deep and long.
Higher and higher Hoot soars. The forest below is a dark mass, the sun a blinding white ahead. Soon enough the light was all encompassing. Hoot losses track of up and down. No longer does he feel the wind beneath his wings and no longer does he feel the sensation of flying. He is in Limbo. Without the imagination of a little girl he is nothing but an idea of the mind.
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“Now Timmy! I told you to stop tasting the glue,” Mrs. Woods, with her dark African hair a long weave down the center of her back where it sways along her flowing multi-color dress, she graciously turns, the previous following in dance, as she addresses the class with a wide smile. “Today our art opportunity will be to use the paints and paper, succors and glue to… Timmy! to make an animal which you can give to a friend or family member. Think of…” Olida stopped listening, too excited about a held-up idea.
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A stirring feeling deep inside his gut got Hoot all anxious. He began to feel his chest feathers move about in a gentle wind. This feeling tickles him and he wants to rub it with his wings. But he can’t. His wings feel heavy and dethatched. He tries to look down, only then feeling dry-eyed, he blinks. What he sees around him is a field of yellow. He doesn’t see his own body bellow him. His chest hairs tickle some more and he fluffs himself, helping a little.
Pain begins to cut along Hoot’s body, following all around his oval circumference. His circle head then receives the same cutting pain. Hoot’s wings and feet are not spared and surely his eyes and beak are the most agonizing. The worst part is he feels scattered and not in control. His individual body parts begin to shake and he feels sick. Just as his body is lifted and his stomach is turning the worst, Hoot knows the power to believe in oneself.
“No pain or sickness will hinder me from the glories of creation,” Hoot believes with all his might.
He tries his best to move, flapping his wings hard to fly. Using all his energy to make something happen, his focus narrow on its goal. A white light blinds and warms his body. The harder Hoot works to fly away, the brighter and warmer the light gets. Both Hoot and the light are working against each other. Both intent on their goal. Hoot flexes his mussels for one final push…
A loud horn bellows three times. Each deep, long, domineering.
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The classroom is loud with busy kids running around cleaning art supplies. Olida presses on the glued beak to her owl and is finished. Washing her paint brushes and throwing away her scrap paper, Olida returns to her art project satisfied with the outcome. An owl, Olida believes, is the most literate and studious of all animals. Appropriate for a notebook.
Hoot has never felt so alive. The world around him is vibrant, colorful, and exciting. Anxiety again begins to get Hoot. He is ready to do anything. He believes in himself and is ready to take that energy into filling this notebook with stores.