It’s easy to spot them.
Someone, usually a man, approaches me after a reading from Bigfoot Blues. These guys are never the first person in the audience with their hands in air when I ask for questions or one of the people standing at the back of the room pretending they just happen to be passing by.
No. This is the confessor seeking absolution.
These guys are the real deal. In the solitary quiet of a scary-dark night, they’ve encountered the unknowable and the experience has shifted something in their center, changed them in ways they can’t pinpoint.
This transformation is, I think, confirmation of a need for connection with something more primitive within selves. Maybe we don’t all have this empty, hollow spot inside. Maybe not everyone yearns to believe something exists in them, something more powerful, more real than the civilized exterior we have clothed ourselves in for so long it’s become us.
Does this mean I don’t believe in Bigfoot? Imagine the great primate of the forest as nothing more than a projection of a human need for contact with our better, less contaminated selves?
I want to believe. And that desire for faith in an unknown primate that is so close to being us, so much our better twin, is, for me, the fascination with Bigfoot.
Almost fifty years ago, was it a Bigfoot that strew my grandpa and Bud Ryerson’s road-building equipment all over the backside of Blue Mountain?
I don’t know. But I want to believe it was.
How about you?