“Your mother will not return, man has entered the forest,” I don’t know how many Baby Boomers were emotionally scarred as children when the movie Bambi (1942) came out, but I am sure a large number. Consider that the villain of the film, not even seen but only hinted at, was humanity itself. True, World War II was raging and for many it was the end of the world, but Disney seemed to take delight in seeing how he could twist that knife a little bit more, showing us a paradise that was forever ruined simply by our presence. Humanity was no better than a jackal-headed beast, forever bound to its blood lust.
For a good many years I thought I couldn’t find anything sadder, until I stumbled upon Gon the Fox(Gongitsune is the title of the movie), which reminded me once again that only the most magical of creatures will suffer at our hands, even the ones trying to do good. I’m posting the entire movie here, though if you just want to start crying begin watching around the 1:01 mark.
Gon is a little orphan fox. Looking for food he comes to a village where, like all scamps, he creates mischief and gets the better of the villagers. This continues until one day he steals an eel from a man named Hyoju, who had tragically wanted to give it to his dying mother. Mother then dies but the young Gon only realizes his mistake far too late. He tries to make it up by secretly giving Hyoju all the gifts that he had stolen from neighbors, though they then accuse Hyoju himself of stealing and beat him up for it. Afterward the little fox brings only mushrooms and nuts that he had gathered in the forest. Hyoju is grateful for the gifts, although he does not understand where they come from.
One day Hyoju sees Gon sneaking around and shoots him out of anger about the death of his mother. Only afterward does he realize to his horror that the fox he just killed was the one who gave him all the gifts. The movie ends with the spirit of the little fox curled up next to his dead mother, reminding children that life is horror and that the only way one can reunite with one’s dead loved ones is through agonizing death.
Sunflowers, Congo azaleas, sky full
of blood, pull the body down. That wide bad
blade, that steel. That thunk. Here is my fistful
of flesh. Take it. My bargain. I was glad
when they rose against the missionaries,
seeing all their ash was a rude gesture.
There was a girl down the road who shelled peas
with one hand and a stump for the other.
I combed her hair. She talked. The machete
was left behind. “Teach me to swing,” she said.
A gray bright rush. She was from the Congo.
She was ten. Heart, heart look away, for she
swung blood, like an amazon from the dead,
stretching out to deliver the death blow.
Last night I was so drunk on something more
that I thought for a wild moment that I
had no needs. That I would go to the shore,
into the wild, and let the wild reply
to my song. I’d let the sea speak for me.
I am tired of language. Tired of speaking
to get my point across. For at the sea
I am a child: naked, sun-burned, dreaming
of ships. I shall build a lovely small shrine
just for myself out of sand and seaweed
and give up on language and fickle men.
I’ll walk naked along the wild shoreline,
singing new songs, and never be worried
about being drunk or sober again.
Still-life with Lilith and a night-blooming
sea rose. You are hard and I’m soft with song,
with all the love born long ago from your
song. I’ve found that loving bitter sick-sweat
from any other out of the question.
What can make certain songs flame into life?
and other songs will simply drown out? Dark
One in the vast depths, I know your name but
will not speak it. I have swam with shark gods
and felt no fear. Maximus of Tyre wrote
that Sappho was “small and dark,” but Plato
called her beautiful. I’ve gone to the cliff
where she threw herself into the churning
undertow, saw how you came to claim her.
I dream of you, cameltoe and all. Blue,
blue is the sea. Red, red is your last kiss.
Green, green your first spliff and sip of vodka.
Shark-soul, spirit-lover. I love soft boys
and stone-hard women: the queen and the butch.
I love the sea rose blooming in your hair.
Not owning a TV it’s hard for me to watch a whole lot of shows, but there are some I follow because brain-candy is fun and sometimes turning one’s brain off is just what the doctor ordered. Speaking of which, it might come as a shock to some, but another white male has been cast as the role of the 12th Whovian Doctor, raising the question of why couldn’t the ever-changing time-lord be played by, say, a woman or an actor of color or an American with a really thick Texas accent? This prompted some on-line debate as to who, exactly, would make the best Doctor if Richard Ayoade turned down the future role. Samuel “Galifreyan, mutherfucker! Do you speak it?” Jackson won the popular vote but I grew up watching Sanford and Son, have always adored Redd Foxx’s role and the running gag of him pretending to have a heart attack whenever things do not go his way, crying out to his dead wife, “You hear that, ‘lizabeth? I’m coming to join ya, honey!” Of course it’s been pointed out to me that Redd Foxx is dead, but why let something like that ruin my fun?
memories of my ghost sista 