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This is a multi-layered poop piece.

The first part has to do with bears. I finally know for sure what bear poop looks like, and it's easy to recognize. Just think about what they eat and consider if there are any other animals in the neighborhood that could leave a load that big. Around here bears go for wild plums and garbage, so if you're looking at the obvious remains of fifteen pounds of fruit, it's ursine, all right. The other day I took a walk through the bushes not more than 100 yards from my house and found plenty, too.

The little hike was a break from some of the more original hard work I've done recently, a project I call the Essay Engine™. I don't know how other creative types manage their affairs, but writing is easy compared to all the grunt-work. It's just so daunting, figuring out who wants what and how to send it to them, and I hate writing things down on paper. What I ended up inventing is a system, an interactive Web site where I can keep track of who's looking at my work and find out where to send it next. The trick here is the use of HTML to link de facto databases together, but the really brilliant part is that it's fun to make Web pages, so I'm actually keeping records and sending out essays. MY GOD, I MIGHT SUCCEED. This is the second part, in case you didn't notice. ["Hey, where's the poop?!" Exactly.]

The third part is a little more subtle. In the course of putting that scheme together, I came across what now occurs to me is actually Microsoft poop. I wanted to learn more about a writing contest sponsored by the English Department at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale and surfed my way to their Web site. But where was the info? Apparently fearing theft of their submission guidelines, they wanted me to send an SASE to get them. I couldn't even complain, dammit! Believe it or not, it also turns out that the SIU English Department isn't accepting any emails these days because of "problems with viruses." No phone number, either. I call this bizarrely paranoid or a true triumph of idiocy, both side effects of a certain kind of academic "tenderness" I've observed ever since I was a graduate student. Couldn't handle stepping in the stinky stuff, I guess. Damn site is ugly, too. GET A MAC!

But back to the bears, or Part Four, if you will. After uploading my Essay Engine™ parts, I was so dazed by the realization I might actually end up happy, I had to take a walk to clear my head. The acre or two that goes with my rented adobe takes in a rocky hillside bordered by an acequia part-way down the slope, and I'd never really poked around. The landscape is mildly dangerous, anyway, as you can see from the photo below.

The first thing I noticed as I picked my way through the prickly stuff was a potsherd lying out in plain sight. Cool! The inch-and-a-half long fragment of pottery could be anywhere from 800 to 2,000 years old, I knew. We're all surrounded by remnants of the past (the atoms you're breathing could be a zillion years old), but only in a dry climate do you come across this stuff just sitting there. I mean, that just blows my mind. My neighbors told me there were potsherds everywhere. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But there are.

As I wandered down closer and closer to the acequia, I saw first one, then two, then three, then four major bear dumps. No wonder I didn't get any freaking plums off my trees. All of a sudden I wasn't in the high desert anymore either. There was thick vegetation on all sides, and I couldn't see the house at all. It was quiet, too. VERY quiet, except for the almost-silent sound of running water in the ditch. The primeval parts of my awareness quickly cataloged what else to listen for. (Snort? Check. Grunt? Check. Breaking branches? Check.) There probably wasn't really any danger, I told myself, just don't wake the bugger up if you find him snoozing.

I moved slowly through the narrow strip of brushy woods on paths no man had blazed. The smell of wet, moldy earth tickled my nostrils and pulled me into ancient memories, until I stepped out into sunlight once again and nearly landed in more bear scat. Suddenly it hit me: dry climate! Poop here, bear gone. Oh good. [Here comes the fifth part.]

Later that day I found bird-pooped residue of juniper berries on the hood of my truck parked underneath the elm tree. I hate a dirty hood, so I grabbed the hose and washed most of it off. Ten minutes later and back in the house, I heard voices through the open screen door. Poking my head outside, I saw my landlord and two neighbors peering at my truck and looking worried. The water on the hood had dried, but there was a wet spot in the dust beneath the bumper.

"We thought your radiator was leaking," my landlord said.

Well no, I explained, just the aftermath of my being fastidious. Very un-Taos, you understand. But my neighbors saw water on the ground and thought my truck was broken, wow. Isn't that great?

Signs of life are everywhere.

 "Grack!"

Senior Applelinks editor and columnist John H. Farr steps in it wherever and whenver possible.

Brillliant new e-mag for sale!

Alternative eBook source:

Lots of pictures of el Norte:

Salon Weblog: yackety-yak!

(Beautiful land for sale here: "What It Is About El Rito,")

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