Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
Strange times. I find myself thinking those two words with increasing frequency in these, strange, times of ours. Sometimes I’ll say them aloud. “Strange times,” I’ll announce, to a seemingly empty room, with a slow shake of the head. The smallest of exorcisms. I was in great need, last week, of a remedial boost following an injury which saw me temporarily incapacitated. I’d been shocked by the breakneck speed at which I’d decided that, without being able to show up in the world in the ways that I typically do, I was entirely useless. Worthless, even. Good for nothing. Oh, how our shadows long for the light. As is my habit when in the grip of a script inherited from a deeply unwell culture, I summoned to mind that which has recently enchanted me. Top of the list being the nest of five Thrushes at the rescue centre, each of whom make the smallest little trills, comforting one another with tiny murmurs of potential song while, after being fed, they settle down and fall back to sleep. How inexpressible my gratitude for the sounds of my wild kin, and how endless my rage at all the man-made noises eclipsing them. On the day that I am crowned king I will see every leaf blower and lawn mower thrown into a pit and set aflame. We will dance around the bonfire of insanities through the night, and come morning we will sit in sweet, sane silence, and we will listen to the Birds sing. But alas, until coronation day I remain subject in a kingdom of mechanical efficiency, trapped ‘neath the tyranny of the decision that taming nature was more important than listening to it.