Friday, June 10, 2016
"The Legend of Thunder Butt"
"They don't know much," he might say. "They're still trying to make sense of the paintings and petroglyphs."
"Imagine that! Thousands of years earlier than the thousands of years old that earlier discoveries uncovered. And all of if just a couple of feet under the Creole/Lakota/Navajo dwellings. I wonder if the later tribes were aware...."
"They didn't find any bones."
"Yes, but the bones are implied in the tales told."
"Imagine that ... some kid out hunting and trips into a hole and a civilization is brought back to life."
"I hear Zinderman is coming from Zurich."
"There is evidence that they sang songs and danced."
"But who the hell were they? They don't yet fit or connect. Maybe they were a one-off."
"No culture is a one-off."
"It's only been six months. They need time to study and evaluate."
"Yeah, but I read they already are shaping a story and calling the whole thing "the Legend of Thunder Butt."
"I wonder if that is supposed to be humorous -- some kind of frustration at the questions unanswered -- or if it relates to some reality."
"Apparently, there really was an entity or chief or leader or something. The glyph is there, but how to translate it is not yet sure. And no, it's not just some trumpeting asshole."
"Neighbors are not entirely happy that their pigs have been walled off from their accustomed spaces ... all in the name of civilization and study."
"Thousands and thousands of years ... imagine that! Is it more or less important than the Large Hadron Collider."
"The collider looks to the future. The legend looks to the past. Is there a difference? Either way it is ignorance that provides the spice."
"Let's let Zinderman figure it out."
Of course the conversation with McKechnie would be far less limited and starched than what is above. These were times when everything was on the table and it didn't matter what was imaginary and what was real. They were times of slip-sliding without apology. Bill would know that silly was OK and serious was OK and everything was on the table. Proof was not the point because proof would limit the ramble. Bill would know.
But Bill is dead.
And in his place, as if by compensation, across the street this morning, a ground hog wanders contented on my neighbor's lawn. S/he seems at home and unafraid. Nibbling at grass tips here and there. No one is up yet, but s/he is up.
I wonder if s/he is working on the Legend of Thunder Butt.
I doubt it, but when have my doubts ever proved much?