I know people think I'm an outsider. That I'm not supposed to be here. That I'm somehow out of place. Or dangerous. Or just plain wrong.
But as it happens, I just don't care. Now, you might imagine me an unsociable being after such a statement, and I cannot but grant that you might have just cause for that. But I am friendly and will gladly pass the time with you providing you provide the libations necessary. That I do promise.
But what I cannot abide is folks moving me along when, to my best cogitations, I am not ready to be moved. I am known as largely a nighttime animal, and perhaps that is where I am most beloved and least despised, but why should I adjust my actions to the feelings of the unfeeling few? If I choose to go and sit upon a fencepost to take in the sun, why, is that not my right as one of god's great multitude? I should say so.
And if what I choose is to watch the heroes of a summer day perform their rites of spring, am I somehow in the wrong? Winter is long for us despised as well, and though you may not see our shivers with your own eyes, know that we do feel the sting of the west wind.
We also love our heroes and wish to see them victorious. I thrill to the sound of leather slap against the hard orb, and the crack of ash as the orb is sent far away. No, I do not understand the rites entirely, but this makes them more meaningful. Symbol without signification is mystery, and mystery is the sole of transcendent faith.
You see, I know more than you have given me credit for. And to call me sick -- "rabid" -- for simply wishing to partake in the sublimity of a late February afternoon on the cusp of rebirth? This seems wrong. This seems unjust.
We are not jokes, but beings. Please, I beg, do not come closer with those nets and prods. Eliminate me, and you eliminate the freedom of enthusiasm. Dare you take that chance, bemasked and bepadded human?
UPDATE: You fools! You know not what you have done!
Possum Watch: He has been captured in a trash can.— Matt Gelb (@magelb) February 19, 2014