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a tiger caged
16 years ago
I hate Los Angeles.
It didn’t happen all at once, but one day I found myself understanding what a tiger feels as it paces in its cage. I feel something in my life is wrong, unnatural. I pace, and I can barely give this thought words, yet as I feel the cement under my feet and smell the out of place plants mingled with the stink of burning fuels in the air, my thought just keep ringing with the undercurrent voice- ‘this is all wrong’.
I grew up on the plains of Colorado. I grew up catching snakes in open fields, riding horses till it was too dark to do so, chasing cows and chickens, throwing snowballs and fishing. I knew every bird, mammal, bug, snake and lizard and when and where they all could be found. I could look in the sky and tell you if it was going to snow, and what clouds meant a fun night of tornado warnings. I was part of my environment; I pulsed with the very thumping of the world. I waved to strangers as I drove small country roads. I knew all my neighbors. I stopped and helped people if they looked like they needed it.
I have been in Los Angeles for 6 years now. It came to me one day how long it has been since I have walked on dirt, walked in a field of native plants. Seems every plant I see is from Australia or Africa. The only wildlife I catch a glimpse of is a wayward coyote who I swear has the same look in its eyes I do- ‘this is all wrong’. It never rains or snows...it only seems to shine. An aquarium consistency of 70 degrees. I suspect I am going to run into the glass walls that surround me one of these days. I smile at my neighbors and get a confused glare in return. I do wave at strangers still, usually a middle finger as they have tried to kill me on some crowed highway. When I have tried to help those who look like they need it, I only get an evil sneer and snide remark.
As the tiger paces it has to know it was born for more. Its feet were never meant for concrete, its muscles are for more than the tight pacing it is repeats day after day. His very skin makes is so stark in its tiny glassed-in world. Meat handed to him on a silver platter; its canines are merely in the way of its eating.
‘This is all wrong’.
It didn’t happen all at once, but one day I found myself understanding what a tiger feels as it paces in its cage. I feel something in my life is wrong, unnatural. I pace, and I can barely give this thought words, yet as I feel the cement under my feet and smell the out of place plants mingled with the stink of burning fuels in the air, my thought just keep ringing with the undercurrent voice- ‘this is all wrong’.
I grew up on the plains of Colorado. I grew up catching snakes in open fields, riding horses till it was too dark to do so, chasing cows and chickens, throwing snowballs and fishing. I knew every bird, mammal, bug, snake and lizard and when and where they all could be found. I could look in the sky and tell you if it was going to snow, and what clouds meant a fun night of tornado warnings. I was part of my environment; I pulsed with the very thumping of the world. I waved to strangers as I drove small country roads. I knew all my neighbors. I stopped and helped people if they looked like they needed it.
I have been in Los Angeles for 6 years now. It came to me one day how long it has been since I have walked on dirt, walked in a field of native plants. Seems every plant I see is from Australia or Africa. The only wildlife I catch a glimpse of is a wayward coyote who I swear has the same look in its eyes I do- ‘this is all wrong’. It never rains or snows...it only seems to shine. An aquarium consistency of 70 degrees. I suspect I am going to run into the glass walls that surround me one of these days. I smile at my neighbors and get a confused glare in return. I do wave at strangers still, usually a middle finger as they have tried to kill me on some crowed highway. When I have tried to help those who look like they need it, I only get an evil sneer and snide remark.
As the tiger paces it has to know it was born for more. Its feet were never meant for concrete, its muscles are for more than the tight pacing it is repeats day after day. His very skin makes is so stark in its tiny glassed-in world. Meat handed to him on a silver platter; its canines are merely in the way of its eating.
‘This is all wrong’.
I grew up in a very rural area of southern California, as a child I caught snakes and lizards and went on long hikes. I knew tadpole season and when the butterflies were going to make their great journey through our property. Except that where I grew up is filled with tract homes now and shopping centers. All the horned lizards and frogs are gone, the butterflys don't migrate through our yard any longer and the tadpole ponds were built over. Its extremely depressing. I ache to be somewhere open again, I know I cant have my home anymore but hopefully one day Ill find somewhere just as nice, and with no city at my doorstep.