I don’t like to think about Lonesome George, the last of his species wandering his island home, about the baleful way he must have looked through those ancient eyes and whether he made a sound in the hopes that another of his kind would hear it. They took him into a center in the end and studied him until he died.
But here I am anyway, perhaps because of how often I see a certain kind of look, the way its eagerness seems haunted by a particular fear, the way so much of the moment seems to be wandering, making sounds.
***
Before his death in 2012, Lonesome George was considered the rarest creature in the world.
The human species seems to have little conscious Lonesome George in them … preferring to live lives of unconscious quiet desperation. Had we left George alone, his life most likely would have been a bit more robust. Human curiousity seems to trump the autonomy of other beings. I live alone, not the last of my species, although I see an end (a new beginning?) in sight. If we are willing to inquire into that solitude, we might find what George may or may not have found. Aloneness is not what it appears.
Wow that is a sad story. I think I vaguely remember this. Your writing is haunting but very beautiful “the baleful way he must have looked through those ancient eyes and whether he made a sound in the hopes that another of his kind would hear it”. That’s a sentence to forever remember.
Thomas, thank you so much for being here. His story is indeed one to remember. Wishing you a beautiful weekend : )