All I know is that lizards tend to get along easily with one another, without complication. It is not that we are “simple” by some misapplied human standard of intellectual or emotional intelligence – and we all know how homo sapiens love to do this, in their endless efforts to puff themselves up as the superior species – but we lizards have our own ways of relating that are unique to us, and I suggest so it goes similarly with all creatures. Emotional intelligence is infinite in its variety, in my experience. As for our species: another lizard might occasionally want to eat you, but it’s never anything personal. Mostly we just enjoy each other’s company; lizards tend to me comfortable in their own bumpy, leathery skin. I wish this were so with other creatures, but alas, it is in no way a universe phenomenon. Of course, to an outsider, it might appear that lizards just stand around together baking in the sun, unmoving and lifeless, but even some human wisdom suggests there is much value in sharing silence; just ask any Quaker.
Unfortunately, the need for endless interaction and chatter is more the norm when most creatures get together – starlings and parrots are by far the worst, though my cousins in the Galapagos tell me nothing can top the mindless noise of the blue-footed boobies and the land snails (is it possible they’re pulling my leg with that one?). One might assume that all such vocalizing signifies important connection and communication, but a closer hearing will often reveal that nothing of the sort is going on. As for me, this kind of thing can make life with Gumby and Pokey difficult, at times, and I’ve become resigned to this state of things, for they are indeed not lizards, not even close, and it shows. Gumby may exude endless good cheer, with that eternal smile and a hand waving “howdy!” in the most welcoming way, the same for Pokey, with his permanent look of quiet repose and thoughtfulness projecting a similarly benign appearance. But sometimes, when those two get started on some topics, things can get out of hand faster than a gecko snapping a fly off the ceiling with its tongue, if you know what I mean. Take just the other day, for example:
It always starts innocently enough. There were the three of us, doing a late summer survey of the backyard, noting the various plants and insects and whatever else that happened to be out there, gathering vital information for all the usual important reasons. We’d observed that the penguin and biker from last winter were gone, the bird likely back in Antarctica or the Falkland Islands or wherever, and the biker no doubt on the European racing circuit where the season is now winding down. All was going smoothly and we were having a most pleasant though ever purposeful time, when Gumby asked if either of us knew what was special about this week. I had no idea, but took a stab at take-a-lizard-to-lunch week (which is every week in my opinion) while Pokey correctly noted that Wednesday is the International Day of Peace. Gumby acknowledged that both of us might be correct, but suggested there was something more going on, something “bigger and more cosmic” or words to that effect. Pokey and I are simple creatures who tend not to think in ways one might consider cosmic, and after a moment, Gumby triumphantly announced that this Thursday marks the fall equinox, at precisely 9:03 EST, to be exact. Being creatures of nature, and the cosmos as well, we were both quite impressed with this news, and immediately began making plans for celebration. After all, there are only a couple of equinoxes every year, and one should make the most of it, like painting one’s face in two colors (an easy one for a chameleon), or staging an event with equal parts dancing and eating, or perhaps sitting around nostalgically contemplating events of the past six months while speculating about what the next six months might have in store; better yet forget that last one as it sounds like no fun at all, given what the world is like these days. The more high-brow and intellectual types might pursue a discussion of Manichaeism or whether a more proper spelling should be equinoces, which would be the least fun of all.
But all thoughts of exciting plans were soon forgotten when Gumby in his usual pompous fashion felt obliged to add some “words of wisdom” or at least what evidently must seem like wisdom in his own mind, by adding “and this gives us a moment to contemplate the importance of balance and moderation in all things. Note the sheer superiority of the light this time of year! Equal parts day and night is surely the best time of all, with the heat and painful brightness of the summer months behind us, and the eternal darkness and cold still several months away. The Greek poet Hesiod may have said these immortal words first: “Moderation in all things”, though they have also been attributed to the Roman dramatist Plautus. Of course it might also be such a basic and obvious truth that it was known long before either of these men, and many today simply know it in their hearts – which I am sure includes you, my two fine friends.”
Fine words and thoughts perhaps, but if you suspect that Gumby might be a bit insufferable when he gets like this, I am not one to argue. Nor Pokey, who quickly responded with “Sure, moderation in all things, including moderation!” as his enigmatic smile subtly shifted into a sort of grin. “And you know who said that, Gumbo boy? How about Socrates? Or Oscar Wilde? Or Ralph Waldo Emerson? Or the Buddha himself? And who knows how many more my search engine might turn up? But that’s a pretty impressive group, right there, doncha think?” The Pokester usually says things like “Gumbo boy” lovingly, but not always, as context is everything and I hate things like context complicating matters unnecessarily. Most lizards, I believe, would agree with me, and in our simple way we are the happier for it. But who else cares?
What followed was a textbook display of the dynamics of this “friendship”, if that’s truly what it is. Gumby seemed to be ready, as if he expected Pokey’s gambit: “Be moderate, in order to taste the joys of life in abundance! – Epicurus! If one oversteps the bounds of moderation, the greatest pleasures cease to please! – Epictetus!” to which he added “and that rhymes!” as if that was supposed to impress us.
Pokey was quick with “Saints have no moderation, nor do poets. Just exuberance – Anne Sexton” and “Moderation is the spirit of castrated narrow-mindedness – Friedrich von Schlegel” which in my mind was starting to get a little nasty, but when these two begin having at each other, one can’t always be sure of intentions, and did I say I hate that? Now for Gumby: “In everything, enough is good. Too much or too little does not seem so – Democritus”.
At which point Pokey brought out the heavy artillery with a full barrage:
“The essence of war is violence. Moderation in war is imbecility – Baron Fisher” and “The middle of the road is where the white line is – and that’s the worst place to drive – Robert Frost.” One might be justified in wondering if this sounds like something the great Vermont poet would’ve really said, but if there’s one thing you can say about Pokey, he is one to use reliable sources. And maybe, in an attempt to de-escalate with a bit of levity (or maybe he was embarrassed about his own over-the-top seriousness) he tossed in the great Mark Twain quote: “Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough” and “It is always best to be slightly underdressed – Coco Chanel.” Which he followed with this topper: “Add anchovies to almost anything, in moderation, and it will taste better – Jay McInerney.”
Gumby, with that unbreakable smile that makes it forever impossible to know what’s really going on in that green rubber mind of his (or is it clay? the ambiguity of it all drives me wild) was not about to let things rest: “The virtue of justice consists in moderation, as regulated by wisdom – Aristotle” but the orange horsey, with his politics that have always been kind of suspect as far as I’m concerned, seemed to be waiting for this: “Extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice. And moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue! – BARRY GOLDWATER!” his strident whinny resounding triumphantly.
I could stand it no longer. Were they about to come to blows? Not that this would matter much, as Gumby and Pokey are comprised of the most durable of materials. But mainly, enough was getting to be enough and when I screeched in my tiny voice “Enough! Stop it! Let it be! Let’s remember why we’re out here!” wouldn’t you know it they both calmed right down, like all of this had been a lot of nothing and whether there was a winner or a loser was of little or no consequence? Invoking Barry Goldwater often has that effect, for some reason. As a kind of token peace offer, Pokey quoted the poet John Ciardi: “There’s nothing wrong with sobriety, in moderation” and that was pretty much that.
“So!” exclaimed Gumby, returning to his role as boss/manager/He Who is Forever in Charge/etc. “let’s get on with it!” which meant what? the two of us wondered. It turns out we were apparently done with the yard, all plants and items accounted for, and with our new shift-of-focus, the green G muttered something about how it was time to “root out immoderation around here!” whatever that meant. Evidently what seemed like an excess of plants in the back yard was just enough, as Mr. Clemens might say.
A foray into the basement quickly suggested that there certainly was something rotten in the state of Denmark, so to speak. For all the bicycles lined up down there, we might as well have been in that velo-mad mecca of southern Scandinavia. “What’s all this, then?!” the Gumbster exclaimed, for the damn things were just about everywhere you looked. Was this some kind of fencing operation? which was unlikely, for as colorful and shiny as most of them looked, these machines were of an old and antique nature, possessed of outmoded technical features which makes them practically worthless in today’s space-age cycling world of the latest and most desirable improvements on a technology that was damn near perfect in the first place. Most of them were also way too colorful – talk about excess! – in a world where the current consumer market demands that their cycles be dull black and gray. Worst of all, not a single one of them had an electric motor! Which made the vision of so many jammed together down in this underground space all the more sad and pathetic. “Let us be merciful” our leader intoned “and assume that all this represents some kind of entombment, like one of those hidden rooms beneath the pyramids, which in a way is most appropriate.”
About this time Pokey cried out “and just look over here!” whereupon we beheld some kind of musical instrument comprised of all these bells, each one bearing the most mysterious of symbols. Our hardy threesome attempted to create some kind of meaningful sound with this weirdest of objects, pushing on the ringers in combinations of one, two, and then three notes together, but the only result was to bring us all to tears, which do not come easily to rubber creatures such as ourselves. Gumby could only add “I gotta get outa here” which spoke for all of us, as we moved upstairs to the dining room.
It was there that we all beheld at once what appeared to be some shrine to the gods of immoderation, so jammed it was with an excess of….what? You name it, it just might’ve lurked in there somewhere, as every conceivable object lay in an absolute jumble. If the gods of immoderation were not the focus here – more likely the gods of clutter and chaos, but if it was merely clutter, was it really about excess, at all? At this point one of us spotted, in another corner of the room, a ridiculous and quite comprehensive array of miniature classic cars and airplanes, with no clear organizing principle other than the fact that they represented old, out-of-date machines, reminiscent of all those bicycles we all were working hard to forget. Was this “collection” or whatever it was of a similar ilk, a result of the same demonic energy? Of course, a collection of the real thing would be worth millions or even zillions. It would also require a hell of a lot of garage space, but car collectors just might represent the epitome of excess, topped only by those who amass Hummels and Beanie Babies, which require much less space to store, at least.
Our tireless trio was by this time approaching exhaustion both physical and emotional, which in some incomprehensible way contributed to an overall improvement in our spirits. All the turmoil and conflict of the previous moments was nearly forgotten, such is the healing power of the mind, at least at odd moments such as this one. In itself this was but a mere fraction of the mystery surrounding relationships of a non-lizardly nature, a mystery which I for one will assuredly never crack; it should go without saying that I am more than fine with that. Let me just add that every day I look in the mirror (or more likely, see my reflected image in a pond, as access to mirrors is minimal in my world) and say to myself “thank God I’m a lizard!”
So it was that the prevailing mood and thoughts turned to a more philosophical/rhetorical or even damned-near lively poetic spirit, a near-exuberance of which Anne Sexton herself might’ve approved, as we each tossed out examples of what could be considered excess by some measures, whereas in a deeper sense they might represent “just enough”:
Is it possible, really, to ever suffer from too many flowers?
Or birds?
Or fall color? something well on its way in these parts with the passing of the equinox. Questions currently abound as to whether or how the terrible summer drought will affect this phenomenon. Some say the season will be shorter but brighter, which wouldn’t be half bad. Or is it half good, and does that mean in good measure?
In the same vein, are there ever enough great Halloween displays, or oversized pumpkins?
Unless it’s a dysfunctional medical or mental condition, can one ever get too much sleep? Can one argue with 50 million cats, most of whom seem quite content awake and asleep?
It goes without saying that there can be too much snow, but only if you’re not a skier.
What about luck? Which is a good way to end this speculation, that shall remain forever inconclusive.
Oh, and one more thing: all those comments by the ancients regarding moderation seemed mostly directed at daily habits and choices, what one might call the Lifestyle Thing. Much of the resistance to that attitude could be said to arise from the so-called “creative” types, the poets and painters and as history tells us, most notably the musicians. Many famous musicians were poster children for the allure of excess, and though many jazz and blues artists exhibited proclivities, in the modern era what has become known as the “Rock and Roll lifestyle” takes front stage in these matters. And those of a certain generation remember “the 27 club”, three artists whose members came to sad and premature ends at that tender age, due to what can only be described as excesses of the worst and ultimately destructive kind. I will not insult your intelligence or knowledge of history by naming these people, but I can only say I am deeply troubled by the proclamation by of one of them to be the “Lizard King.”
As I have already noted, lizards if anything are simple, uncomplicated creatures, of a sort that you’d feel comfortable taking home to lunch, so long as that lunch included flies and other small insects, or a substantial amount of raw meat in some cases, if your lunch guest were an alligator or somehow some extinct carnivore of ancient times. And most lizards know it is all the better that they are that way, which does not mean they can’t occasionally share celebration of excess and immoderation and exuberance in their own humble way. Hey! Some of us can change our colors at will! Can you do that? But to taint our species with any connection to the most destructive aspects of the Rock and Roll lifestyle is an insult of the worst kind, and if drugs hadn’t killed the poor fellow you can be sure one of us would’ve bitten his head off sooner or later and good riddance, may he rest in peace.
Most Humbly Submitted, Godzillito
