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Chapter 1 - Professional Communication in Today’s Digital, Social, and Mobile World. Psych 104 Notes - I wrote them based on the slides and the textbook. Itm Midterm Notes On Information Systems In Business Today. Essential Communication Skills (COMM 19999). Introductory Pharmacology and Therapeutics (Pharmacology 2060A/B). Algebra for Hons Mathematics (Math 135). Introduction to Microeconomics (ECO1104). Introduction to Applied Statistics (Stat 151). Information Systems For Management (MIS 2000). Introduction to Project Management (MGMT8300). Introduction to Molecular and Cellular Biology (BIOL 1090). Weather for Sailing, Flying & Snow Sports (ATSC 113). Organization Development And Change (ORGS 4837). I have mistaken the dream’s deadness for my own skin, my breathing for the shaky song of the Zulu ambush katydid. I meant for the dream to end, but not while I was inside it. I would like to place it in a den of Yunnan lake newts and let their red spines outshine my blood, though everything is already shining from the edges in and closing the doors behind it. I would like to place it in a cooler body. My cells rumble beneath the plod of the Xenoceratops, which honestly seems too big to have vanished. I don’t know how an entire forest has sprouted inside my lungs, but I have been cooperative, and the leaves of the woolly-stalked begonia have been so gentle. My hips are mottled by the Vegas Valley leopard frog. What kind of sponge is this dream, that it can soak up so much time? What happens when it’s squeezed? My knees have become upland for the upland moa. O Tasmanian tiger, not even one hundred years gone. O night soft as sea mink, everything’s going to be fine. I too had thought myself unassailable, buoyant with time. I recognize the Rodrigues night heron by its unwary amble. The space between the stars is startlesome as the eyes of the Queen of Sheba’s gazelle. #TINDERBOX POETRY FULL#
Extinct means extinguish means quench, but what mouth is so thirsty for our deadness? What could hold the Navassa curly-tailed lizard as it curls its tail in alarm? What could hold ten million species? The Old English bulldog, for example, or the aquarium full of phantom shiners gleaming like the northern lights. Long enough to erase the large sloth lemur and the Mariana mallard and eighty-three percent of everything else. Most people die within a day of waking from this dream, but if life on Earth were a day, we have only been awake for one minute and fifteen seconds of it.
In the forested canyons of being dead, they can finally be answered. I’ve heard that most people die within one day of having a dream like this, in which I am packing my suitcase full of Kaua‘i ‘ō‘ō mating calls. I hadn’t thought to see the Japanese sea lion again, or for the first time.
The Indefatigable Galápagos mouse is here, which seems unlikely as anything. I have followed the speckled trail of Himalayan quail feathers and now I am on a beach that is also a mountain that is also, somehow, the scrubby backyard of my childhood home. The golden toad clambers across the cloud forest of my face. Because the dream is so dead, there is no difference between moss and my breath. The eelgrass limpet could easily be mistaken for a mountain pebble, the forkshell for a shelf fungus. Because the dream is so dead, there is no difference between the land and the sea. The cryptic treehunter carries a dwarf mantis orangely into a tree. The bluebuck lowers its blue face into them. Appalachian yellow asphodel, the dream says, and its sunny stars shine, exuberant and dead and loudly so. Or the deadness has been a dimple on the dreamscape: a little sweet, a little fermented, a little vegetal. They have always been a little dead, but only around the edges. Lately, my dreams have been more dead than usual.
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