Self Help for Tortoise

by Claire Taylor

This past summer I worked with the interns of the Borderlands Environmental Care Youth program on envisioning the future of a new “Borderlands Earth Care Center” in Patagonia, Arizona. We wrote lists of what the Earth Care Center had and of what it needed. Our work culminated in a pop-up book illustrating vegetation for local wildlife (“snakes and bunnies habitat” and a “pollinator/aesthetic garden”); a pond; places for humans to live in or visit such as adobe houses and tents; “resting areas” for humans to take a break in the shade. The interns and I share an affinity for “snakes and bunnies habitat” and for things like cacti and rocks and places to rest.

Two of my earliest friends in Arizona were a saguaro and cholla in dance. I met them on a run in the Tucson Mountain Park. Their cactus arms were held in the air—one arm up and the other arm down—a stance shared between the two cacti. Their bodies leaned slightly in the same direction. It was as if they were in a very, very slow synchronized movement. I paused to rest and mimic their stance.

I’ve spent time running, walking, dancing in the cooler places I know of in Tucson and Southwest Arizona. Doing these types of movements is an excellent time—and the expanse of the Sonoran Desert is an excellent place—to consider absolutely anything. (Perhaps this is in part why “resting areas” was recommended by one of the interns—thoughts come differently while resting. Though the suggestion was likely more due to the hard work the interns put in each day.) The landscape of the Sonoran Desert feels as though it reveals things. Things start to unravel in the heat. And it’s rare to find a place the sun doesn’t reach here in the Sonoran Desert. You can see things more clearly. For me, when I say the Sonoran Desert is an excellent place to “consider absolutely anything” what I mean is, simply, existence. Perhaps in part due to the revealing and unraveling nature of the desert. The creatures—the snakes and bunnies, and others—are my muses.

The following story is informed by my time in the Sonoran Desert. It is a work in progress.

PART 1: A most obvious thank you

And with a whoosh you come into existence. ‘Ah! Existence,’ you think—if thinking were a thing at this moment (!) in…what would you call it now? Time? Time is new. Time is new here in this… whoa… SPACE. Space is new.

I suppose (is this thinking again?) existence was inevitable. Ah! Existence. That’s what they were all talking about as they shrieked on by blasting through the new expanse.

We have all separated. All one before; all many now. (Thank you for the good reads, Dr. Bronner, Dr. Hawking.) Still, in the many are we also still one? Ah, too much to think about while busy with becoming.

(A most obvious thank you for your infinite influence, Italo Calvino, of Cosmicomics)

PART 2: Now.

Time is confusing. At least in the desert you think you can see it.

You see:

There’s a green block resting on the sand. You pick it up. DREAM MACHINE is written in clear letters across the center and just left of a red circular button. Holding the box in your left hand, you press the red button with your right hand.

Ah, I should have known. Another WHOOSH…

…

Open your eyes. It is dark. You bump your head on the surface above you. You bump your head on the surface below you. You bump your head on all the sides and in all the corners. Are you in a cave? You decide it’s best to close your eyes again.

After a time (following what you think is a blink—a sleep?) you open your eyes again. This time you include a stretch with the opening of eyes to exit the cave.

Ah! It is not a cave. It is a home. Your home. You are home. It is a shell. Your shell.

You are a tortoise.

Blink. Open your eyes.

A photon springs from your left eye.

“Thanks for the memories! They all were good—even the bad ones,” the photon shrieks as it flies into the universe.

Something like a rose, a poppy—a flower—falls from your right eye and lands on the ground.

“Ah, I am of this ground,” you say as you eat the flower.

Thunderclaps. Lightning strikes.

A barrel cactus innocently standing next to you is electrified. The ribs of the cactus unravel. There, in the cavity of the remains of the cactus rests a book.

“The Book of The Obvious,” you say aloud reading the cover.

You claw at the book moving it into your shell.

You ask the obvious questions:

“Why am I a tortoise?”

“Why am I here?”

“Why now?”

“Are you ready?” asks a passing lizard, another question in response to your questions.

“Yes,” you reply as you place a pebble in the lizard’s paw.

You take a step forward. Then another step. Then another. Another. And so on. Until the sun sets.

“What now?” you ask. You look along the horizon.

‘Where is that lizard now?’ you think.

“Lizard?” you call out.

Alone, you move rocks. You’re a novice at moving rocks, but it seems to be going okay. You’re making a sign. You shift the rocks until they read: A PLACE TO REST.

Stars begin to show in the sky.

A wide disk emerges from the horizon.

You fall asleep.

You dream:

What is the opposite of a tortoise of the ground?

A cat of the sky.

Questions? Please refer to The Book of The Obvious.

Is it possible that The Book of The Obvious is antiquated and false?

Is it possible The Book of The Obvious contains ubiquitous truth?

Is it possible you wrote the book long ago and forgot?

During your sleep, lizards emerge from under rocks and holes in the ground. Inspired by your sign, they construct their own sign: PARADISE IS A STATE OF MIND.

Oblivious to doing so, you sleep with The Book of The Obvious as a pillow.

…

A turkey vulture flies overhead pulling a curtain metaphorically for: here we go, here’s a break in the story. An intermission. Take a rest.

INTERMISSION

Listen, an aside, I know that what you want is the plot, but all that I have got are the details.

And a cloud says, “Here’s the plot / here’s the point: water.”

Another cloud far, far away calls out, “What you want is the plot. What you’ve got is hot. You are hot. Hot as the weather.” Well, that’s nice. I guess. Heat for sleep.

But in the heat, the details melt. What have we got, then?

PART 3: Meeting the Moon

You awake to a time you are familiar with. The sky is pink and purple and misty-mushy.

“Ah, this must be what one calls morning,” you say.

You look around and see snakes, birds, lizards, wasps, dogs, and lichen sleeping on the rocks of your sign. You see the lizards’ sign—though of course you don’t know it was created by lizards—PARADISE IS A STATE OF MIND.

“I’d like to meet the cat of the sky,” you say aloud to anyone who might listen.

“That’s fine,” says the lichen.

…

The most dog-eared chapter in The Book of The Obvious is titled “Clichés are Quite Nice.” In fact, the book consists of just the one chapter. Within, one can read about things such as walking, journeying, the moon, the sun, the soul, sunsets, sunrises, mornings, evenings, love, horses, cats, blessing messes. It is quite nice.

…

Again, you—the tortoise—walks. You spend the whole day walking and thinking if you keep walking, you’ll eventually walk into the cat of the sky.

You are sleepy by mid-afternoon. You look up in hopes of either seeing the cat or a sign of the lizard or something to imply that your walking has led you somewhere. You see only blue expanse and one tiny shimmery cloud.

…

Another dream:

You hear: “The cat of the sky is easy to meet if you really want to meet them. They perch in nearly the same place nearly every evening.”

It’s your mother calling.

…

You wake to the sound of ocotillo arms clapping in the wind. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Opening your eyes—again—you say, “I need a rock. A rock to climb. To meet the cat.”

“Take my hand,” says an ocotillo. You reach out, accept the hand. The ocotillo pulls you up the rock and rolls you into your climb.

‘On my way to meet the cat of the sky,’ you hum in your mind as you reel up the rock. Your humming merges with the sound of a multiplicity of creatures. Your ears buzz. Bugs flit and screech; spoon flowers purr as they grow their stalks; flies rub their feet; mesquites shake their beans; grasses scrape against each other; javelina grunt digging holes to hideout from the heat; bobcats wail; salt crystals crinkle as they form on the edge of drying pools; if I could convey it all here it would be too much and our heads would explode—it is a sound and feeling not meant for text.

Coming over the edge of the rock, the edge of the sound and feeling, you sense that you are falling over the edge of the earth. You know, it used to be a common event, but no one falls off the edge of the earth anymore, so you wonder: why is this happening to me now?

Falling upwards, you fall into the sky.

In the sky. The lizard is here. The lizard says, “Would you like a cup of water?” The lizard holds out a small vessel emblazoned with the words TORTOISE’S CUP. You accept the lizard’s hospitality. As the cup passes from the lizard’s claws to yours, something happens. Remember the photon?—the photon from your left eye?— the photon zips into your cup. Your eyes glow as you drink.

As you lower your cup, you see behind the lizard the cat of the sky scaling the giant glowing disk from the nights previous.

I imagine you know the obvious by now: the cat of the sky is the moon—the moon cat.

A lizard walks across the face of the cat—a hot moon rock of a face—to find a place to rest.

You can see that on the backside of the moon grows moss.

“It smells like the ocean here,” says the moss.

‘Is this the past?’ you think.

“No, silly, it’s the present,” says the lizard and moss in unison.

You gather your focus to look into the face of the moon cat.

You see the face of the tortoise looking back at you.

…

The story doesn’t end here, though it could, but it doesn’t.

Still, it’s a good place to take a rest.

At least now we have our scene set.

It was a matter of pure chance and choice and thumbs.