Tag Archives: bears

The dumpster next to the broken fences: a food experience critique.

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I frequent many dumpsters  in my travels throughout the forest and areas adjacent. With as many as I do visit, it can be difficult for a dumpster to really stick out to me as particularly special or worthy of future visits. The dumpster next to the broken fences I found, however, manages to do both of those things. Not only did this dumpster feature an interesting spicy plastic dish I had never had, but it also managed to contain not one but two whole fish carcasses. Even with the (possibly rabid) raccoon watching my every move in mind, the dumpster next to the broken fences has been one of the best dining experiences I have had in a very long time.

Course 1: Spicy yellow plastic bag with very strange dust

I have to admit, after I managed to hurdle my legs over and into this dumpster, I was not optimistic about the first thing I found. I have eaten many plastic bags in the past, and though they are very fun to chew on, they are not great to eat and almost impossible to digest. This plastic bag, however, was so intriguing. Spicy. It was so spicy. I could feel the heat of whatever once sat in the bag run down my tongue and out of my nose as it cleared my nostrils. There was a strange dust that came with the bag, too. It was spicy like the bag, but there was so little of it available. I liked what I had, but I really just wanted more. Side note: the plastic bag featured a drawing of a very strange cat with black eyes and thumbs. I was not fond of him. He was scary.

Course 2: Two fish carcasses (one with the eyes still in the head)

I did not expect fish carcasses. Sure, maybe one fish carcass. Maybe cans that smell like fish carcasses. But two whole carcasses? This was a rarity and a delight. One carcass even had two large, yellow eyes resting in the skull. The bones of the carcasses were soft and chewable, making them very easy to eat. I did not accidentally choke even once. One fish carcass was drenched in a tangy sort of red mystery liquid. I hoped the sauce would be hot and spicy like the plastic bag from the first course, but, unfortunately, it was quite bland and did little in favor of the carcass itself. It was not unpleasant, but it was definitely not necessary.

Course 3: Apples cores with a light coating of coffee grounds

The apples cores looked stunning. Presentation wise, they were the most appetizing looking course of the night. Unfortunately, I was unable to actually eat any of them as my meal was interrupted by a (possibly rabid) raccoon who barged into the dumpster very suddenly. Then I heard very loud shouting as the raccoon scrambled and clawed at me. He quickly jumped out of the dumpster and I followed because loud sounds are very scary.

The dumpster next to the broken fences I found was one of the best dining experiences I have had since that time I licked the moldy rock in my cave an entire morning. I would give it a perfect review if it were not for the incredibly scary loud sounds that drove me away at the end of the meal. With its minor faults in mind, I give the dumpster next to the broken fences I found:

4 out of 5 (2)

4 out of 5 lovely leaves.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear.

Why do I have to not be a bear eventually?

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not forever (2)

Can you win at living in the forest? Does living in the forest stop when you do well enough, or is the only end similar to the end of the anthill I accidentally sat on: nonexistence?

I have never heard of anyone successfully finding an ending to forest living other than the one detailed with my ant experience. That does not mean there is not another way out of forest living. Perhaps achieving it means being taken away from the forest, thus it would be difficult for anyone who has experienced it to communicate its existence to anyone who has not experienced it. Maybe there is a particular set of actions and mindsets that will help you not end up being the bird carcass I found inside my cave the other day. Maybe you can end up not nonexisting. Maybe you can keep being the thing you like being forever and ever no matter what.

I do not know.

Nobody does.

But I cannot help but to obsess over the possibility when I think about not being a bear (or an anything else for that matter). It is terrifying. I want to keep being a bear, and it seems strange to me that eventually, no matter what, I have to not be a bear.

Why do I have to not be a bear eventually? Why was I designed to be a bear so well for so long, only to have it eventually taken from me for no reason that I can figure out?

Why be a bear only to eventually not be a bear?

The most frustrating part about these questions is how useless everyone and everything seems to be when it comes to answering them. Trees? Nothing in regard to these questions. Squirrels? They seem unable to think beyond a few seconds ago and a few seconds from now. The sky? Well, the sky never says anything, so that is silly to even consider. For awhile I figured rocks might know (the depth of their wisdom is only matched by the hardness of their being and their effectiveness in chipping my teeth when I chew on them), but if they do, they are not sharing the answers.

It would be nice to at least have some kind of encouragement when these matters, some kind of reassurance that not everything about existing beyond right here and now is so daunting and terrifying. Nothing provides that, though. And, in fact, the forest is littered with clues to point to the opposite. Everything that stops being a thing in the forest does not get to do so gracefully. In fact, most things are just eaten or simply rot away (I cannot fault the forest too much for this, after all, since I do a lot of said eating).

So how can I win at living in the forest? What can I do to keep being a bear and not face not being a bear? What does the forest want from me in return?

Or do I need to just accept that I might not be a bear one day?

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear.

 

I do not know what I cannot do.

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forest rules (2)

Some tiny rodents spent a great deal of time building a tiny stick structure inside my cave.

Did you know you were allowed to do that?

I did not. The thought of doing so had certainly crossed my mind before. I had, on numerous occasions, considered building tiny structures within my cave (which is, itself, a kind of structure). I figured it was not allowed, though. Who would let such strange things happen with absolutely no consequences at all? Certainly, there had to be some rules on this matter.

It turns out there are no rules on this matter.

Or any matter, that is. Not in the forest, anyway.

After I accidentally slept on the rodents’ tiny structure (again, not against the rules but I am sure someone (probably the rodents) frown upon it), I decided I needed to try to understand the do’s and don’ts of the forest. After all, what if I was breaking forest rules, upsetting whoever created those rules (likely trees but a council of raccoons definitely seemed plausible as well).

I went exploring for answers.

I had no idea where to begin, so I just started doing what I like to do when I do not understand something: ask local squirrels and just sort of shout out my questions until someone or something answers them or I get sleepy and nap wherever I am standing.

My search was mostly fruitless.

Rob (the squirrel) (from whom I often seek perspective on various subjects because he thinks so differently compared to most things that think) said that there were no rules anywhere, that the word was meaningless, and that I should do whatever I please all the time until I die because that is all there is. Then he bit me and ran.

I suppose it would be nice to do anything I wanted forever and always, but I did not like Rob (the squirrel) biting me, and it would have been nice had there been a rule against that.

This was a complicated matter. What can you do in the forest? What can you not do in the forest? Who decided such things? Did I get any input on these decisions?

I still do not have the answers. I do my best to do what I think bears can do (eat grass, nap, stare at things, etc.) while trying to avoid what I think bears probably cannot do (get along with deer, fly, not nap, etc.).

It is intimidating to think I have to be my own rules compass, but if the forest cannot provide a set of rules for me and other creatures to follow, what am I to do?

Honestly, I just hope I am doing it right.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

You can also now use Tumblr to address questions to Bear.

My smells: are they for everyone or just me?

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the stink (2)

I spent quite some time yesterday with my snout buried inside the crevices of fur between my claws. Past coming up for the occasional gulp of fresh air, I kept my face in the center of the smell consistently for a long time.

I liked it.

The smell, that is. I really liked it. The fur that is nestled there relaxes me and makes me feel good about myself, my fur, and my claws.

Rob (the squirrel), however, disagreed. Rob (the squirrel) approached me while I was enjoying the smells emitting from my feet, and he was quickly disturbed by the image. He aggressively asked me what I was doing and why I was doing it. I explained, and he asked if he could have a whiff as well. I did not see the harm in sharing such an intoxicating fragrance, so I let him smell the fur between my claws.

His eyes watered.

His face went sour.

He ran up a tree, nearly slamming his head into it as he recklessly escaped the odor of my feet.

I was hurt, honestly. Why did he find my foot smells so repulsive when I found them so delightful. I continued to smell my claw-fur for awhile before I decided to investigate why my smells might have upset Rob (the squirrel).

I had to question whether or not my nose was a good judge of a smell’s character. Just because I liked the smell of something, did that mean it was a universally beloved smell? Did that smell have any kind of popular opinion behind it? Did every creature experience smell in a unique manner?

I had to survey.

I first asked a raccoon in a dumpster I frequent if the fur between my claws smelled good. He was hesitant to try sniffing them, and, in the end, wound up biting them before running away. This was useful data for other questions I have about the forest (example: do raccoons like me?), but it did little in helping me understand my smell dilemma.

I decided to ask a longtime foe of mine for his opinion. I figured if the deer across the river had even the slightest interest in my smells, then those smells must be generally acceptable to all creatures who are not terrible, disgusting beasts and, therefore, Rob (the squirrel) was merely an odd exception.

The deer across the river told me my smells are as pointless as bears are. I then spent some time staring at him while sniffing the fur between my claws simply to spite him.

Finally, I tried testing my bear aromas on some mice who had slept under my belly that morning. Surely they found my belly fur smells enjoyable, so they must have something to say on the subject. They told me they were too consumed by the warmth of my belly fur to notice its smell. I offered them a chance to smell my  belly again just to get their opinions, but they slowly backed away from me in unison upon the suggestion.

I like my smells.

I know they might not be for everyone in the forest, but I do enjoy them. Perhaps we all have different ways of smelling, though, which should make me feel like I do not need the approval for my smells that I so desperately seek. But I still feel the need for that approval.

I hope you like my smells.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

I wish bad things did not happen.

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sticks are good (2)

I had a collection of sticks.

It was a lovely collection. It contained sticks that were long, sticks that were short, sticks that were pointy, sticks that split off into some sort of double stick thing, sticks that had been broken into more sticks, and even a few items that were not sticks but I felt deserved to be in the collection (dirt, a plastic bottle I found, some acorns, etc.).

I kept the collection near my cave and added to it frequently. The collection was growing quite large, and I loved seeing it grow. I was very proud of my collection of sticks (and stick related items), and just knowing that it was there, ever being a lovely collection of sticks (and stick related items), was comforting to me.

Recently, however, it was damaged. I do not know by whom or why, but someone or something ravaged my collection of sticks (and stick related items). I approached my sacred pride early one morning to find it strewn throughout the forest, massive chunks of the once amazing assortment scattered and broken and lost and gone forever.

I was heartbroken.

Why would someone do this? What had the collection of sticks (and stick related items) done to anyone? I tried to follow the path of chaos that had been left by the destroyer, but it was fruitless. Even pursuing the idea did little to make me feel any better about having lost the sticks in the first place. I just wanted my sticks (and stick related items).

I growled for awhile. At nothing, really. I wanted to be angry at what happened, and I wanted that anger directed at someone I could blame. But the loud roars I produced also failed to make feel any better about my lost stick (and stick related items) collection.

I felt lost and helpless. I considered: Why have a stick (and stick related items) collection to begin with if someone or something can just completely destroy it on a whim and with reckless, hostile force? Why bother collecting anything that could be so quickly smothered out of existence without notice?

I sulked for awhile, sitting next to my fractured stick (and stick related items) collection.

Then I collected the sad remnants of my sticks. I picked up the ones I could find with gritted teeth.

I piled everything back the way I remembered it was, as best I could.

It was a slightly smaller collection of sticks (and stick related items) now, but it was still my collection of sticks (and stick related items).

I do not know why my collection of sticks (and stick related items) was attacked. I wish it had not been. I wish my collection had been allowed to just be a collection of sticks (and stick related items) forever, never losing sticks or getting tossed around or being destroyed.

I wish that had not happened, but it did. I still have my collection of sticks (and stick related items), though. And I will keep adding to it like I have been. Maybe, one day, it will be just like it was before.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

The potentially wonderful but possibly nonexistent river bear.

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River bear (2)

The river I go to in the forest is a great mystery. I know a few things about it. It provides delicious water for me to drink. It has lovely, shiny pebbles at the bed of it. The river also delivers fish for me to stare at or eat or consider the lives of. I can swim in the river. I can sit in the river. I stare at what I presume is my face in the river. The deer rests by it, too, which I am not fond of, but I understand why he chooses to do so (beyond to taunt me).

I know these things about the river.

What I do not know, however, is where it comes from or where it ends up. It seems to move forever in both directions, so in the past, I have been far too intimidated to explore the river. Where would I start? Toward where the water goes or toward where it comes from? Do I want to know how it begins or how it ends? Should I just float in it and see where it takes me? Should I trek to the side of it, against where the water flows?

There were too many things to consider, so I never bothered to actually create a plan for exploration until very recently. When I did finally decide to explore, I was set on finding out where the river begins. I made this decision based off a theory I had developed involving a river bear at the mouth of the river. What if there is a bear at the end of the river from whom all the glorious water seeped? Imagine it. A massive bear with its mouth wide open, pouring rushing water to provide for the numerous creatures of the forest who depended on it.

My theory was based completely off a dream I had after taking a nap in a dumpster where I ate three wet pizza boxes, but I felt absolutely compelled to explore it and find out if it could be true. Even if it was not, just knowing what was at the beginning of the river would be satisfying enough to validate the trip.

So I started.

At first, I swam in the river, toward the flowing water. It was difficult but very fun. I also got a lot of water in my mouth and ears and eyes. That was less fun.

The journey continued on land. I stepped out of the river and walked beside the stream of water instead.

It was… boring.

It was very boring.

Before long, the sun had left and the moon had come and I was sleepy.

So I napped.

When I woke up, I was in the river (I am not sure how this happened), and I had floated all the way back to where I had started. I was startled to find the deer across the river staring at me, surely thinking of ways to end my life. I made a growl of discontent and got out of the river. Then, I went home.

In my cave, I napped again. I was hoping to dream about the river bear again, but I did not. Instead, I dreamed about floating down the river forever, enjoying the peace and soothing sounds of the water as I accepted not knowing anything about everything. Also, I am pretty sure the deer was the one who pushed me into the river while I was napping (I have no proof, but I feel this is accurate).

I woke up and ate some moss in my cave.

It was nice, and though I wish I could have met the river bear or at least found out if it existed, I was okay with where I ended up.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

Accepting snakes: why I want to but I cannot.

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image1 (2)

Snakes are horrifyingly terrible terror serpents who I assume only exist to make life for all other living organisms in the forest more difficult and exhausting.

I apologize for that very aggressive introduction, but snakes and I have a long, horrible history, and that history is almost completely based off snakes intruding on my personal space (mentally and physically) and harming me (mentally or physically).

When I push my emotions to the side and truly contemplate snakes as creatures in the forest (as they well deserve), I know they exist for reasons that are likely too complex or important for me to thoroughly understand and process. Snakes have a purpose. I know this. However, I wish I knew that the importance of this purpose outweighed my aggressive loathing for them.

I cannot figure out their purpose, though.

Why are snakes here and why does the forest need them and why can they not just leave me alone and exit my mind and my cave and never come near me ever?

I asked other creatures of the forest why snakes existed. I received varying answers. A opossum screeched at me (I assume she is afraid of snakes, too). The anthill I asked seemed neutral on the subject, responding mostly in silence and very organized rows of many, which makes sense given that ants seem to only care about ants, dirt, and how ants interact with dirt. Rob (the squirrel) (from whom I did not expect a rational or just answer) said that snakes have only one purpose: to be questioned about by me. He then laughed at me and stole an acorn I had found.

I also asked a lizard. My thinking was that lizards look quite similar to snakes (except for the legs and discernible body/tail and generally pleasant disposition), so perhaps lizards had more insight on the subject. The lizard said that everything has a purpose in the forest, and that often the purposes are very subtle and involve food. He added that these purposes only exist in the construct of the forest and have no value outside of the forest and, therefore, meant almost nothing on any scale larger than the forest so making cosmic sense of anything was ultimately futile and a waste of time. I liked the first part of the answer (it was difficult to consider the second part because of the food part of the first part), but it did not help. Are snakes food? Do snakes make food? Should I eat more snakes?

Snakes are a part of life. They always have been. They always will be. No matter how much I want snakes to not be a part of life, there is no changing these facts. I have to learn how to live with snakes. Or I have to begin eating all snakes (which I do not want to do because they have pointy teeth and the few times I have eaten snakes I felt a deep, uneasy essence in my being that I was unable to get rid of for days, even weeks on in).

Maybe I can just try to talk to snakes. I do not think I have ever done that. Maybe understanding snakes is like understanding any other creature: you just have to get to know them personally. And not eat them or assume they exist only to ruin your life.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

Also, thank you to everyone who participated in the survey-based adventure Bear embarked upon on Twitter last week. Thousands of you voted to help him decide what basic decisions to make about his day. It was very fun, and he hopes to find time to do it again soon. 

PS

I talked to a snake and it bit me.

 

Branches and roots and bark and being a home for others: I want to be a tree sometimes.

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tree roots (2)

I like being a bear, but I would be fibbing if I said I never dreamed about being a tree. Trees are noble, silent, and everseeing and probably everknowing and smell great. Trees are tall and impressive. They taste good. They are fun to chew on. Trees are everything to everyone forever and never complain about having to fulfill that duty all of the time.

I like trees.

I am not a tree, though. I will never be a tree. And maybe that is for the best, but I do like pretending I can be a tree. One of my favorite pastimes is digging my pointy claws into the soft earth and pretending they are tangled roots to my tree being. I dig in and settle myself and let the wind and the elements run through my fur and my ears.

I pretend I can see everything in that spot forever. I imagine the seasons passing over me constantly and consistently. I imagine my fur as gnarled branches reaching toward the sky, acting as homes for birds and bugs and bees and leaves and light and anything else that is light enough to stay there when it wants to. I close my eyes and think about existing in the same spot for what must feel like always and experiencing that single spot for so long that you know everything about it.

Eventually the soil gets uncomfortable, though. I realize I am not a tree and shake the dirt off my toes and go back to being what I know I am: a bear. I will never truly get to experience the longevity or evereverythinging of treeness.

I only know how to experience bearness. I suppose that is not too horrible, but I do constantly find myself trying to know existing beyond what existing as a bear has to offer. I wish I could be like the raccoon I ran into while sleeping in a dumpster a few days ago who was chewing on his own leg and foaming from the mouth and (maybe even) the ears: I wish I could just accept who I am.

But I cannot. I think I always desire the -ness of another being, and I will probably always have a hard time accepting my own bearness. I can still pretend, however. I can still take a few moments out of my day to hurl my claws into some dirt and pretend that I am a tree.

Even if  I am just a bear.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

I do not know what a DJ is, and a squirrel pretending to be a bear attacked me.

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Recently, Rob (the squirrel) ran into my cave saying he had a new and exciting game for me to try that he had found in a dumpster while looking for wet pizza boxes to sleep in. I was intrigued. Though I knew what games were, I had never actually tried playing a game with someone else. I once stared at the mossy rock sitting in my cave for a long time until I fell asleep, and then I tried to do the same thing but longer for several nights afterwards. That was a fun game, but I was more just challenging myself than anything else.

Rob (the squirrel) said I had to try this game he found. It was called “The Raver and the Bear.” Rob (the squirrel) said I would love it because he knew how much I liked to rave, which I assume involves ravens. I have never met a raven, but I was immediately drawn to the “Bear” part of the game’s title. Had someone made a game specifically for bears? I was excited to find out.

Rob (the squirrel) would not let me see the rules of the game, insisting that I could easily follow his verbal instructions. He passed out several little squares of paper. Each one looked similar to this:

noiseand sounds (2)

He then said I would be the DJ. I asked what a DJ was and he said they make noises and that was all I had to know to understand the game. Rob (the squirrel) then explained what we were to do with these little squares of paper. He hid his squares from my sight and said I had to guess the order of his squares by making the noises indicated on my squares. If I made my noises in the opposite manner in which he setup his squares, then he would violently attack me because he was pretending to be a bear and that is what bears do when they are mad, according to Rob (the squirrel).

I was upset by that notion. I did not attack everything that angered me. Yes, one time I pawed at a branch that I stepped on and I also maliciously chewed on it because it hurt my toes, but that kind of behavior is very rare for me.

Midway through addressing my grievances, Rob (the squirrel) announced the game had begun and commanded me to make the sounds indicated by my little squares.

I tried very hard to imitate the sounds on my squares, but they were difficult for me to pronounce and I was distracted by a knowingly evil glance from a trickster rodent.

Before I could get a grasp on the game, Rob (the squirrel) quickly mauled me and declared himself the victor.

He asked if I wanted to play again, but I was hesitant to say the least. The game certainly seemed interesting and fun, but like most organized events, it was easily ruined by an aggressive squirrel.

If you would like to try “The Raver and the Bear,” you can find it by clicking here. You can also ask a human named Colin about the game. I think he might know squirrels.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com

Perhaps there are infinity bears?

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image1

Counting is hard sometimes. I often find myself wondering why there are certain numbers of bear parts that make up my body. I know that I have four legs to help promote mobility and stability. I have two eyes to help me see (and count things).

But not everything about me seems to make sense. Some of my parts are simply uncountable. For instance, I often wonder how many strands of hair make up my fur. I have tried to count them many times but have failed miserably. Usually I lose track or fall asleep or run out of visible patches of fur (I once employed Rob (the squirrel) to help count all the fur on my back, but he wound up counting acorns instead; it was very confusing and unproductive).

My teeth are also difficult to inventory because I cannot see them. I have felt them with my tongue, but my tongue is an unreliable accountant.

I assume that the number of hair and teeth I maintain is an appropriate amount for bears and won’t fluctuate too much in the course of my existence. But if that number does change, do I become more or less bear? I hope not. I hope my bearness retains all the qualities that make me a bear despite any missing teeth or newly grown fur.

The perplexing nature of numerical values is also applicable to the forest itself. I know how many Rob (the squirrel)s there are. One. Just one. That much I know. But I have no idea how many trees there are. I’m sure I would eventually be able to count them all if I kept a thorough tally, or I if were to mark them so they would not be recounted, but other matters seem to take precedence over this goal: food, naps, rolling in dirt, more naps, etc.

Even if I could count every tree in the forest, what would it accomplish? I know that I would rest a little easier knowing that number, but would it shed any light on the number of other things around me? Probably not. What do trees know about the quantities of other things in the surrounding world? Very little, I would guess (no offense, trees).

Much like my teeth and fur, there are things in the forest that change so rapidly, they would be impossible to count. Take clouds for example. They shift and float across the sky without warning. They change color and disappear. How could anyone be able to keep up with that sort of behavior? Perhaps clouds simply do not want to be counted.

I am easy to count. I am one bear. One, single bear. I do not know how many other bears there are. I assume more than just me. Perhaps there are bears in other places beyond the forest. Or maybe even beyond the clouds.

Maybe, just maybe, there are more than just one of me. There could be infinite versions of me across infinite versions of the forest. If this is the case, counting my legs and fur and teeth would be acts of futility. How do you count to infinity?

I suppose counting things shouldn’t be so worrisome. Rob (the squirrel) says he never counts things and believes there is simply enough things around at any given time. I suppose, on some level, he has a point.

The hypothetically infinite numbers of me have yet to come crashing down on one another, so I guess things are as they should be.

Rob (the squirrel) ate three of my acorns.

I am a bear.

If you would like to try being a bear, why not read some of the bear adventures available on this very site? 

For any questions or comments directed at Bear, feel free to write to him using this email: justasinglebear@gmail.com