The view from Jay Peak, Northeast Kingdom (Vermont) 10 August 2008

The tiny carcass on the kitchen floor was not immediately recognizable as such.  Against the creamy linoleum, the little shiny red and purple entrails seemed more like melted Cherry Garcia smeared with a drizzle of chocolate.  I had forgotten that the old expression "something the cat dragged in" has a meaning beyond the way I sometimes feel in the morning.

"Molly loves doing this," my host explained with bemused affection, the way you might of a child with a habit of leaving out toys adults trip over in the night.  Molly was not, I believe, the tabby who could clean herself in an unpleasantly audible manner in the still quiet hours before dawn.  Nor was she Loki, the one who had found herself in a plastic bag and raced through the house as though all the demons of hell were upon her, eluding capture in an adrenaline-fueled circuit of mayhem and destruction.  Presumably Molly was the ominous dark mottled creature with a threatening gleam in her eye who enjoyed a comfy spot at the end of my bed.  And when she dozed off, she snored.  When, of course, not out on the prowl, disembowling field mice.

The moutainous countryside here abounds in life, both wild and domesticated, and one is encouraged to venture forth and enjoy it either skiing, or as a seasonal alternative, hiking.  On our journey to the top of Jay Peak I quickly discovered that the custom of employing switch-backs in hiking paths is shunned in the Northeast Kingdom as too leisurely and inefficient; here one takes the direct approach, straight up and straight down, over and across any and all rocks and outcroppings and impediments, thus insuring a proper workout for one's efforts.  Therefore, into this invigorating experience I sought to introduce moments of quiet repose in order to more fully appreciate the bounty of nature, and to allow the sharp stabbing pain in my chest and the tingling numbness in my arms to subside. 

"Ants," I observed casually between heaving gasps for breath, pointing to the activity on the rock I had chosen to pause upon -- and vainly claw to find purchase.  My host's son, a hale and hearty creature of ten, leaped and bounded gazelle-like back the hundred or so yards he had gained on me, to get a closer look.  His blue lips and tongue confirmed my worst fears about the effects of the high altitude, until I was disabused of my concern by the observation of a bottle of energy drink which (unbeknownst to me) came in an electrifying shade of blue not found in nature.

My host, rapelling down to join us with an alacrity equal to his son's, took this opportunity to hold forth in discourse on the resilient nature of ants, their prodigious populaton growth, their ability to communicate and cooperate with other varieties and strains of their species, their fortitude in the face of nuclear war, and their likely candidacy for successor to human beings as primary resident of planet earth.

"There are dragon's veins at the top," my host's son explained, referring to the marbled compostion of the rock outcroppings above us where it appeared all living things had (reasonably in my mind) forsaken to grow.  His father, meanwhile, was luring me to the top with vague promises of a ski resort's gondola system which, in the event it remained in operation off-season, might return me to the bottom, thus obviating the necessary downward plunge by foot.

Pretending to be enticed by their reports, I acquiesced to continue the ascent.  To make conversation to distract my companions from alarm over my physical limitations, I opined about Molly the cat and her violent short-lived relationships with other (smaller, weaker) creatures; by analogy and under the circumstances, of course, I was pondering my own fate amongst the residents of the mountain woods, should it be found necessary to leave me at the top, and in the event that rescue by helicopter proved futile.

Laboratory analysis, my host assured me, had determined that in the moment prior to death when the mouse goes limp in the cat's mouth, the reflexive loss of consciousness is the result of a blast of Dopamine entering the creature's brain.  In other words, as I struggled to grasp the theoretical inferences of the research, I was being persuaded to believe that though Life is often cruel, it has a built-in safety net at the very end.  I expressed this interpretation of the data even as my vision clouded with sparkly sequins and a not very euphoric light-headedness.

Exactly, pronounced my host.  The experience is no doubt akin to what mystics describe as Bliss, or that rush of ecstasy and white light one associates with the arrival at (in this case) the rodent equivalent of heaven.  Mouse Nirvana.  

"What a comfort," I replied, imagining myself paralyzed and praying for that final chemical injection as the jaws of a grizzly bear closed over my own frail skull, ready to pop like a large and balding grape.  I peered once more into the vertigo-inducing depths of the forest below as it plunged away from me.  I looked up toward the inaccessible peak above, with its cracked and jagged veins of marble, of mystic dragon blood, of vistas yet to behold.  Ah, wilderness, I thought.  Ah, Life.  And then, Ah, Death where is thy sting? I asked, a question which, in light of current scientific evidence, now seemed rhetorical. 

At which point a troop of seven cheerful toddlers collecting birch bark and leaves for some pre-school project tramped their way happily past me, their pink-cheeked Snow White guide bringing up the rear and lending a Disney-ish quality to the scene.  Heigh ho.  Heigh ho.

As the Dwarfs sang about going off to work, I mused that sometimes what can seem like work can end up a form of play to others, and vice versa.  Hiking.  Physical labor.  The tokens of labor can even become a decorative element in the garden, as evidenced by the mill stone below.  A thing of beauty, released from its utilitarian duties.



In the art world I believe the term is "Decontextualization." 

And Dopamine is Bliss.