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Of Turtle Tears and Butterflies

by Vanderleun on July 26, 2018

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Leslie July 26, 2018, 7:56 PM

Love it

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KMM July 27, 2018, 5:48 AM

Wondering if the turtle derives any benefit from this activity or whether this is more akin to humans being bitten by mosquitoes.

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Fred July 27, 2018, 6:49 AM

Same. What is the symbiosis here? The turtle is clearly not only cooperating but holding it’s head at an optimal position. Maybe it dries the eyes and causes the production of more moisture which causes the cleaning of the eyes out from particulate matter that can get under the inner (under water) or outer eyelid of the turtle. Maybe the butterflies clear the corners and edges of the lids from debris and such.

His creation is interesting.

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Monty James July 27, 2018, 9:48 AM

Yup, giving up hallucinogens was a good decision.

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pbird July 27, 2018, 10:53 AM

How do we know they are tears? Could be something else.

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Welcome to the New American Digest: 2003-2020

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Van der Leun: The Normblog Bio of Your Host

“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”

A Wicker Basket

Comes the time when it’s later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter—

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor’s,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes—

So that’s you, man,
or me. I make it as I can,
I pick up, I go
faster than they know—

Out the door, the street like a night,
any night, and no one in sight,
but then, well, there she is,
old friend Liz—

And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we’re gone.
She turns me on—

There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie,
with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it,
and I eat it—

Slowly. And while certainly
they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket
of these cats not making it, I make it

in my wicker basket.

— BY ROBERT CREELEY