The Origin of Stuff I See: A field journal by Zombie B. Zed

I don’t understand the motivation of parents who strap their kid with a food name. Yelling “Apple!” (ahem, Gwyneth) anywhere besides a farmer’s would probably just make everyone else on the street duck for cover from rogue/falling fruit. It’s also a scientific fact if your kid has a food name, the probability that he’s a whiny, snotty little hellion increases, a billion fold. Case in point: Bibi Souffle, gangly 3rd grader, Forest Scout troop leader 4 years running, tent designer, expert tracker, and a giant thorn in everyone’s side. 

Field sketch of Miss Souffle. ^^^

Vee and Bibi are sort of long-standing troop nemeses (as close as little girls learning cursive can get to being mortal enemies), so Edgar and I knew we were in for a real treat of a weekend when we volunteered awhile ago to chaperone a troop camping trip. There was serious Forest Flair at stake, and access to open flame. I’m a good roomie/bestie. I wanted to help Vee win some scout points. So Edgar, his dumb bird Wes, Vee, a gaggle of 2nd and third grade girls, and me, all powered through a weekend of Bibi touting her trout fishing skills, insisting she roasting everyone’s marshmallows because she was the only one who could do it correctly, and screaming like crazy whenever Wes tried to perch himself on her head (maybe just like, 3 times). Surprisingly, we all got out of the woods unharmed that weekend. Unless you count a splinter in a thumb from an unfortunate fort-building debacle. All good, though.

This weekend, I’ve volunteered to take Vee’s scout troop into the woods for some fire-building, tent-pitching, smores-melting adventures. I don’t know what possessed me to volunteer; it’s only just hitting me how insane it will be puttering in the woods with a bunch of seven to ten year-old girls. Edgar’s coming with me as semi-non-parental reinforcement. I’ve had to agree to let him bring his pet raven, Wes (apparently the bird requires his own tent, but I’m not going to even fight that one). Edgar also says he won’t fish or teach any wilderness navigation. He will, however, gladly offer up a ghost story or five.

NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS FOR A PROCRASTINATING OBSERVER OF NATURE:

1. Write in journal more than once every 4 months.

2. Diagram at least one chipmunk (how do they exiiiiiiist???)

3. Saturday jogs in Patterson Park with Vee. If Zombie Run, move to next day. Or, go to Curves.

4. Stop binging on Numb3rs. Easy. Only one season left.

5. Sailing lessons-- become world’s first undead pirate naturalist.

So, I told Vee today that for as long as I’ve been in B-more, I’ve never eaten crabs. She said this was unacceptable and immediately asked her mom if she could get some. She got us a whole bushel, which I was no help in eating. I dunno. I’m not into the idea of hitting beady-eyed things with a mallot before cracking it open and eating its insides--are they looking at me??? (Vee says you’re not supposed to bludgeon the crabs when you open them, but still).  

She doesn’t seem to get how veganism works. Somehow she thinks she can get me to eat a crab eventually. It’s her turn to make our snacks tomorrow... I’m gonna give my fruit plate a very thorough inspection, that’s all I can say.

   Let’s get the obvious out of the way: I am a zombie. “Undead,” “sort of dead,” whatever else you want to call it. Tasteless as it may be, I prefer, “zombie,” purely for the alliteration in Zombie Zed. If you’re wondering what the B is for, stop guessing because the answer is not that interesting. My mandible will occasionally unhinge and my eyeball will occasionally pop out, but that’s about as zombie as it gets with me. I hate lumbering down long hallways, moaning.  Brains in any presentation are vile (even with a nice Chianti). Give me a decent vegan lasagna any day.

   Apart from all of this, I am what you’d call an amateur naturalist. You know, like Darwin. I study living and inanimate things, make note of them in this journal. I am partial to Richard Small’s work, versus Darwin’s. If you don’t know who he is, you should know him. But if you can’t find a naturalist named Richard Small anywhere, it’s alright, you don’t have to know. Just know he’s the best.

    I “live” in Baltimore, Maryland. It’s pretty great living within walking distance from my favorite writer, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. We meet every Wednesday evening to write poetry; he’s been giving me feedback on my meter. 

Oh, and my best friend is this girl called Vee (alive). There’s a book about the two of us coming out this Halloween.