Thursday, November 24, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Life of the Primitive Baby
Stalking deep within the confines of her own primitive jungle, she hunts. Careful not to disturb the natives, she creeps along with confident quietness, continually scanning the area for sustenance. She knows that if she alerts the other creatures, her hunt will fail. She'll never obtain her goal. She must be a master of stealth and speed.
Such is the life of the baby forager.
The baby knows that even though food is brought to her, cut up, heated, diced, and smooshed, this is not real. This is fake food. Real food must be scavenged. Real food must be found. Real food must be hunted. So she rejects these paltry offerings with screams of resistance. When placed to her own devices, her real hunt for food begins. She crawls around on hands and knees, looking for any crumb, any speck that resembles life giving nourishment. Undoubtedly she'll be thwarted from time to time by the overshadowing giant that looms down on her. She'll be scooped up and her catch will be ripped from her grasp. Her mouth will be swabbed and her kill taken from her very mouth.
The baby knows that even though food is brought to her, cut up, heated, diced, and smooshed, this is not real. This is fake food. Real food must be scavenged. Real food must be found. Real food must be hunted. So she rejects these paltry offerings with screams of resistance. When placed to her own devices, her real hunt for food begins. She crawls around on hands and knees, looking for any crumb, any speck that resembles life giving nourishment. Undoubtedly she'll be thwarted from time to time by the overshadowing giant that looms down on her. She'll be scooped up and her catch will be ripped from her grasp. Her mouth will be swabbed and her kill taken from her very mouth.
But there's always tomorrow.
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