Saturday, June 10, 2017


In my early teens reading Tarzan books I kept a wooden box packed with supplies to survive in case I was ever in an airplane that went down over Africa. Bandages, needle and thread, a compass, writing implements, vitamins, aspirin, knives (Swiss Army a must), and even a bottle of booze, which my best friend in grade school, a tomboy whom I years later took to the high school prom, had secreted away unto me in 7th grade after school in a heart-pounding scene at the edge of the soccer field overlooking the high school football field.

I used to listen to Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" and see such visions. The Ballantine paperbacks cannot be overstated. The covers by Boris Vallejo in particular helped me see the world of Tarzan. In my story I imagined a figure, ostensibly me, in the future surviving a crash, but taking a blow to the head which leaves him believing he really is the lord of the jungle. And then he doesn't merely survive, yet thrives sufficiently to live among and interact with local populations of people and other primates and big animals like elephants and much more.

Additional conflict arises. Adventures ensue.

Eventually, years later, rescuers arrive by small plane. Bringing romance possibilities, undoubtedly. The hero's Quixotic aspects, once amazing achieved and displayed, subsequently depart. Senses returned, however, cannot sway the hero into leaving. For now the truly his home.

And then as the plane flies off, he races to the swaying tip of the furthest branch of the tallest tree and vents a soul-searing uncanny yell--just in time with Bruce Springsteen at the end of the song.

When my kid heard me tell her about all this she said, "Oh, awesome!"

So yeah, I don't know. Hm. Maybe there's something there after all. That would be a cool thing to bring to life after all these years.

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