Sigmund's Symbols

March 5, 2024

I’m worried about Edward. He hasn’t returned to the park since the plague struck.

He has seen his share of winters, no question about that. Could it be that he just stopped running altogether, as all of us eventually will? Was he slain by the plague? Did he get into some sort of trouble for giving me that special food, which has made so much clear that used to be muddy?

I certainly hope it isn’t my fault. Edward is so gentle and kind and full of fascinating stories. He never treated me like a pest. He sang as beautifully as he wrote in that handsome little notebook of his, patiently teaching me to prevent modifiers from dangling. When I put it to him that a comma splice sounded like an attempt to combine the genes of a comma and some other punctuation mark as part of a fiendish experiment, he laughed so hard that the wild human crouching under a tree a few feet away looked alarmed.

It takes a lot to alarm a wild human. They used to be rare in my small park, but they are multiplying like mushrooms of late, and the plague certainly did not reduce their numbers. Instead of offering me food, they covet the same offerings I do, and sometimes try to do me harm the better to corner the market. I am very glad Edward never offered them any of the special food. If they became even more cunning, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

I ought to explain that the “special food” consisted of some singularly peculiar peanuts, which Edward offered to me on several, consecutive afternoons about six months before the plague. At first, eating them had no noticeable effect, save that I found them both delicious and nutritious. Of course, I hadn’t the capacity to describe them or anything at the time, but after my third meal, I was looking at Edward, and suddenly noticed that I was looking at him. That is, I was aware, and aware of my awareness. It was terrifying. I actually doubted my own eyes shortly after realizing that they were mine. Edward could see that I was alarmed: “Sigmund?” said he, and for the first time, though I had noted this noise and responded to it unthinkingly as a sign that lunch was served before, I recognized that he was referring to me. I filled my cheeks with some of the special food Edward had scattered on the grass at his feet, as was his generous custom, and high-tailed it.

I think what I experienced is best explained in just these terms: my fellow living things and I give each other signs all of the time. If a predator approaches, there is a call that signifies that in the tongue of my people. If I spy an attractive, potential mate, there is a sign that, if you will indulge me, I am an eligible receiver. What we don’t do is use symbols. Symbols are particulars that refer the mind upward to ideas. Your people use symbols to communicate, for you are aware of your awareness, so a set of marks is not merely a set of marks: whether it is Sanskrit or Spanish or Swahili, that set of symbols allows you to think of, and about, people and places and things and ideas. It is astonishingly beautiful, this way of being yourselves and being with one another and in the world. Why you don’t do this all of the time, once you have food and drink and a place to hide, I can’t gather.

Once I had groomed myself, I went back to see Edward the following afternoon. He looked at me rather skeptically, as though he was measuring some invisible part of me. He offered me one of his faintly glowing goodies. I devoured it greedily. As I was doing so, he opened his handsome little notebook, wrote “Sigmund” at the top of a blank page, and pointed to me. I was an idiot at that point of course, but for the first time, I knew it. Edward was a wonderful teacher. Slowly, he began to instruct me in the use of my mind, and of language. I’m not sure there is a difference between the two, really. If I ever see Edward again, I intend to ask him.

As the weeks went by, Edward began to show me things on various screens. It was amazing! Your people are not limited to words alone: you can put images together and make them quick. The first time Edward took my photograph, I panicked. For a moment, I was sure I was trapped in his device. But then he took his own photograph, and showed it to me, while he remained smiling and free to roam before my eyes. I gradually got the idea. I think that‘s what your people are for, as it were. Like spiders spinning webs or beavers building dams or my people gathering good things and flying from bad, you represent the big, public world and the small, private world. You are representing apes, really. I mean no offense.

What’s strange is that you don’t seem to understand that the representations you make will still be around when you stop running for good. Sure, you last a lot longer than my people, but you all stop eventually and never run again. But Edward showed me that words that represent what it was like to be a Sumerian three thousand years ago are still around, let alone what it was like to be you at dinner yesterday.

We have that in common, your people and mine: we know it's important to gather good things and hide them away in case of famine or other trouble. What your people can do, though, is gather and hide whole worlds, public and private, big and small. As your Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 says, of itself: “So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” No other form of life can outlast itself like this. I can’t stop, apart from eating and sleeping and talking with Edward.

I really must find out what has happened to him. I’ll write about it, whatever it is. Starting tomorrow.

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I ought gratefully to note that I was inspired to scribble under the sigil of the squirrel by the profound and provocative writing of Rachel Deeming, whose vivacious and variegated work you ought to seek out using the link below: