You move me

Fear and longing are intimate, lovers never separated, so closely entwined that they have no identifiable edges. They are a quintessential visual illusion, morphing one into the other. Pirates sing to them as if they were a twoheaded siren.

What do mere mortals hear in the presence of this singing?

Perhaps the hearing is song 257 on the list of the "500 Greatest Songs of All Time" created by Rolling Stone magazine. "Wild Thing, you make my heart sing. You make everything… groovy."

But wild thing is a misnomer. What is wild is not a thing. It is, rather, the mirage left behind by the evanescent evaporating of the crazed sweat from those edgy lovers to whom we sing. "I love you: You move me."

And the wild is even less than this glistening aura left behind by non-existent love water. The wild is like empty space that hides between the atoms of the sea of fear and longing. And the wild is less, even less than this.

The wild is a construction of the human mind, mere name. But in being that it is really wider than the wilder wilderness. The wilderness lives in here, in this mind, a place that can call itself desolate, alone, or that can be called contemplative, greatest union.

The English band, The Troggs, created fame for the grooviness of the Wild Thing as they sang in the mid '60s. "Troggs" comes from their original name, Troglodytes. Troglodyte means caveman, a hermit living in a cave. In my constructing pirate eye alive in this cave there is the coming, in Faulkner's words, of "a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."

Wilderness is that not controlled by humans. From the Old English words for wild beast, wilderness is the as it is, untouched.

A paradox unravels: How can encaved hermit alone be site of this love singing, singeing the tangled hairs, fearing/ longing? How can the wild be both pristine freedom from human encroachment and alive only in the inner most cave of the mind?

If we enter REM sleep with unbroken self-awareness, we might find ourselves WILD, in a Wake Initiated Lucid Dream. Hog wild, on a wild goose chase,

we might test reality there in a attempt to name our context as waking dream.

What happens when we flip switches? Can we push our fingers through the palms of our hands? What do we see in mirrors? We can look for rules unruly, broken and unbroken. Let's take a wild guess. Is this an oneiric wilderness, uncontrolled and uncivilized, fantasyastic? Dueces are wild here, two in one, but no one really.

Thoreau knows: "In wildness is the preservation of the world."

Pirates are wild cards, raffish, rakish roué. We are wildeyed wild dogs with wild ideas. We live in caves that dream they are afloat in mirage seas, constantly shrinking and sinking. So we can sing a silent song, a watery air.

Oh, Wild Thing, Wilderness, you make my heart sing. You move me out of my me into your you, perennially regouging grooves and etching again illustrious illusions, terrifying and compulsory. This secret needs neither conservation nor preservation for there is no proper use nor possible protection.

In our grinding parts we are more untouched than tundra, taiga, rain forest, outback, or desert. We are innocent, biologically intact, free of infrastructure.

Wild Thing, I love you.

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the muse. Make contact if you dare.