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Bob Schneider- Changing Your Mind




The Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization recommends when collecting evidence of his existence: “one should photograph each footprint individually. Place something common next to it, like a soda bottle or a pack of cigarettes to indicate size and dimension. Do your best to preserve the integrity of the scene. Try to photograph the prints in sequence, as they walked from where they were, to where they went.”

As with any myth or hoax, there will always be people who hunt for proof of its reality, swallowed as it may be in drifts of snow, or doctored by technology to suggest a thing far more important to any of us than the truth: what was, what could have been, the necessity of its lingering possibility.

Call us scientists. Call us seekers and fools. We’ll assert the existence of the Abominable Snowman by the glacier of ice melting like a crisis in the center of a puddle of water, the weight of Sasquatch sunk in the dirty depth of his footprint. He was here, but he melted. He was here, but he walked away. You just missed him.

But you emptied your pockets of their contents and scattered them around his print to prove how small they are. How close you were to him. You planted your soda bottle and your pack of cigarettes as proof of habits you’d quit, and you Photoshopped your own footsteps not hesitating toward the puddle. Your wish to remain theoretical is as apparent as the documentation of your attempts to be found and just as easily dismissed as a hoax. It’s better this way. To almost-exist is to be forgotten just enough to remain desired.

This way, you are frozen mid-step like a woman in a stained glass window affixed in a church wall. A sea snake licks at your bare feet which are pruned and blue. Your smile disappears into your right cheek, teeth coppery as flattened pennies on the curve of a railroad track through Missouri. This way, that red dress floats on the surface of the water, fluid around your neck and Elizabethan. This way, your head stays above water and the black hair slicked like seaweed around your face comes alive underwater in flocks like interrupted birds and shields your body. No one ever sees your nudity but someone out there claims to have proof, and he finds you everywhere.


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posted by holly.

One Comment

  1. Dave wrote:

    I’m either never going to listen to this song again or I’m going to listen to it obsessively at some point.

    Lingering possibility is as often torment as it is hope. Or maybe it’s just that hope is torment. I guess it’s that torment through hope that’s supposed to lead us to ye tang che, right? Sometimes, I think it would be so nice if everything were fated, if there were a god and he had a plan, and we were mere marionettes or zombies with feelings who just march inexorably along the path that some higher power has laid out for us. How comforting might it be to absolve ourselves of the burden of choice and uncertainty and failure. “It’s just god’s plan.” I wonder if that life would be easier and still contain the richness that our life of stumbling through the dark, unable to see much of what’s ahead or even what’s right in front of our eyes has.

    Friday, November 22, 2013 at 9:54 am | Permalink

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