Family was enacted soundlessly in the late hours of the afternoon. Rubbing tails, dipping, gently stroking, wading to the other side. The lone tusker cares not for this cliché togetherness. He treads into the thickets - tusks proud and threatening. The jungle carries on, on mute mode. Prey is sought, killed, meat is peeled off bones, carried to the meadowish streamside, eaten, washed up, drunken, shelter sought, found, sex sought, found, babies had, raised, deserted, herds formed, herds broken, lone-rangers avoided. With no recording, declaration, sharing. A common rhythm is maintained. No one has a baby, fucks a woman, eats a byson and shares a capsule of evidence for others of the herd to ‘like’, extrapolate on, discuss the dimensions of. But sharedness is had, sustained and passed on. If you are familial, you will rub asses in the afternoon lake. If you are a loneranger, you will thump through the thickets. The locking of eyes, interweaving of timespace, holding of hands is avoided.
Human camaraderie would require the intentional locking of time, space and disposition. An email, a text, a gently pressed palm. The beastworld is content with gentle reminder of a shared, divergent rhythm of common time, space, resourcepool. Of hierarchy, sovereignty, assemblage, disentangling, togetherness and separateness. The same minisculeness of being that requires telephone calls, texts, emails, tweets, weblogs, literatures, constitutions to magnify their vibrations. Minisculeness projected onto a mega-screen of consciousness. Maybe minimalness is not a bad idea, beasts suggest. Try our ways sometimes. Let the bottom-rubbing, prey-hunting, home-building, stampeding go out as they came. Giving way to the next round. Know your friends in shared presence. Without seeking to interlock, collect, record.