Figs 1

ENCYCLOPEDIA SINGULARICA
Page 350; column B
FIGS I
When you watch a nature documentary from the late Twentieth Century or especially the early Twenty-First Century, you get the unmistakable impression that, though no one is saying so, the implication is clear that animals really are just living the same kinds of lives we humans do, only (mostly) without clothing or skyscrapers or the complete works of Shakespeare to explain themselves with. They may not seem as intelligent as us bumbling tailless monkeys have convinced ourselves to pretend to be, but then, when you look at humans from a certain distance, you start to realize that our intelligence is largely contextual, and that our actual success rates are not really that much better than the average lemur or squirrel. As far as intent-to-result ratios are concerned, we may be hot shit with a curling iron or a Rolodex, but we’re merely broke at a higher lifestyle than our animal sisters and brothers.
Notice I didn’t call them cousins. We do that a lot, too, and it doesn’t yield the net results we keep hoping it will. Animals have complex inner lives the same as us, and though they don’t speak like Looney Tunes characters, we have to concede that any animal willing and able to live successfully in tandem with a species as rapacious and as self-centered as us deserves some recognition, just for determination. Squirrels and raccoons and cats and dogs and birds live in pretty close proximity to us noisy apes, and there are stories of larger, wilder animals starting to creep into urban centers around the world, almost as if they’ve read ahead and have learned that we aren’t going to be in charge for much longer.
It’s remarkable how quickly we divorced ourselves from the world around us. Don’t think our animal friends and competitors haven’t noticed.
I just reread and edited the last three paragraphs, and feel that I might be sounding either hurt or just disgruntled. I missed my chance to live a peaceful, contented life a few exits ago, so it’s all downhill from here, kids.
Returning to my original orifice… sorry, my original point, the way Sir David Attenborough wove his narratives and told the stories of his encounters with the natural world doesn’t simply describe but actually explain the relationships in terms that modern audiences can both understand and openly empathize with, which is a bigger and more important job than we like to acknowledge. He is one of the few men of his generation that still speaks to all of humanity openly and with grace and insight. I love that his films have seen a resurgence in popularity.
So there we were, my wife and I, watching Planet Earth and noticing how moved we were by each episode. Except the ones with those bugs that turn larger organisms into zombie slaves. Wait… that may have been QI. Damn you, Stephen Fry! Make more documentaries!
I should probably explain that I am now writing at least some portions of this book while under the influence of Cannabis, which I use to manage my back pain, but more importantly, for my crippling anxiety and attention deficit.
What? You’ve never experienced Time Dilation Theatre before?
But seriously, we do think too highly of our achievements, and completely disregard how much more harmoniously our animal sisters and brothers live their desperate little lives on this lovely planet. And Earth is lovely. I’ve seen many gorgeous, unearthly photographs of our home planet, back during that brief period of Internet History shortly before everyone developed mad Photoshop skills and started grafting boa constrictors onto their partners’ genitalia without the use of invasive surgery.
Hey, who am I to judge? I airbrushed cleavage onto a girlfriend’s photograph, in the mistaken assumption that this would be received in the light of hopeless romanticism. I think she was nice about it, but we didn’t end up marrying, which speaks to one of the many reasons I am not a more well known author than I am: my incredible inability to hold on to a good editor.
This chapter is entirely self indulgent and will be rewritten if I ever get around to making my point.
My point is, lemurs are coming for our figs. They know we’re holding out, and they are going to get even. Mark my words.

© 2019 Lee Edward McIlmoyle Publishing Ltd.