Walter,
We have never met, and most likely never will. My name is Eugenia R. Cadbury (the R. stands for Redoubtable, don't you know, but I've never liked it. It's a lot of pressure, wouldn't you say?). I'll get right to the point, my dear, you must be awfully confused. I hope you understand that I was quite confused myself until very recently.
On second thought, I feel I simply must convey some terribly important context. I fear I may lose your interest, but it would not do to toss you headlong into this uncanny puddle. We'll slowly wade together first, shall we?
When I was very young, too young to talk and certainly too young to remember, my parents brought on a man to help with the grounds. My parents were quite well off, you see, but a touch lazy when it came to menial tasks. They preferred a quiet read, or a stroll. Personally, I find the menial tasks are the perfect solution to frayed nerves, but they were of a more refined generation. Mind you, I'm not so young myself any more. I'm afraid my customs would seem just as strange to you as my parents' were to me. I don't harbor the slightest bitterness toward my parents, you must understand. I hope I haven't given you that impression. They were kind and generous people, outstanding members of the community, and never turned down an opportunity to participate in vigorous discussion with one of their many guests. Guests who, unforunately, left little time for a daughter. They had started off well, as I am told; eager young parents looking after a healthy child. But, gradually, they lost interest, and the responsibilities of my care increasingly fell to Clyde, the groundskeeper. Completely inexperienced, he devoted himself to me almost as if I were his own, and I've always loved him for that. We became incredibly close. He was a young man when I was born, only 22. Later, when we were both a bit older, I learned how he had ended up with my parents. He was born in Germany, had a typical childhood, and then spent several months fighting reluctantly for the German army near the end of the war before deserting and making his way to England. He insisted he had never hurt anyone. He didn't like to speak of it much, but if pressed, he would joke that he'd done his part by wasting as much of the Nazi ammunition as he could lay his hands on. His name had been Heinrich Vertrauend, but he'd changed it to Clyde. I suppose he just didn't have a need for a last name. It still makes me laugh to think of him explaining why he'd chosen Clyde. He liked the sound of it, he said, the way it seemed unassuming and gentle. Vertrauend means confident, you see, and he never felt it suited him. Another grand burden of a name. I never particularly liked the name Clyde, myself, but I never had the heart to tell him, the poor dear.
He did not speak English very well. Oh, he could get his meaning across, but only with effort. It was worst when I was too young to know English well, either. My parents, liberal as they were with my care, stood firm when it came to languages. Under no circumstance was I to learn German. No Cadbury yet had needed to learn a foreign language. It would be an insult to hundreds of years of family tradition. So, my dear, sweet Clyde made a language that he and I could share. Now please, my patient Walter, please understand that I will not share it with you, in whole or in part. I trust you will not be offended. To help me remember the names of the objects in my daily experience, he would fashion nametags for my accoutrements, telling my parents these labels were a system of organization. Though recent events may have further skewed memory's already-tarnished lens, the tag I remember most was bent, by Clyde, around the foot of an injured young raven that had been abandoned in the yard. Clyde had taken him in and cared for him. He let me choose the name, of course, and, when I had, he affixed the anklet, etched with the name. When the bird was healthy enough, we released him. Other than a passing remark every so often, we thought no more about him.
About five years ago, Clyde passed away. His last five years were miserable, he was not himself and could hardly leave his bed. He would occasionally rage at some invisible force, and when that mood hit him, he was inconsolable. I had time to prepare myself for the inevitable, but losing a lifelong friend is never easy. You are too young, I sincerely hope, to truly understand what I mean. But, let us not dwell on the sadness of an old woman, hmm? The exact night Clyde retired from his suffering, I began to have vivid, coherent dreams. These dreams were continuous, each one carrying on from the end of the previous. They were not every night; sometimes there would be a space of weeks between them. The form was always the same. I had a distinct sense of myself, but had no form. Floating disembodied in a dense fog, I could do nothing but listen to the narrative that proceeded in crisp, clear words, not one of which I have forgotten, even across the span of these two years. Walter, this is the most vulnerable I have ever been. I have never told anyone of this, and if you do not believe me, as crazy as I may sound, I could never forgive myself. Here is the first, verbatim. If this makes no sense, writing to you was a grave error.
Several hours before my impending death, lying immobile, wrapped in a blue hand towel stained with grease, on the cold cement floor of a dim garage, I was given the name Here-lies by a group of four well-intentioned but ignorant boys.
They had cautiously picked me up from their local high school grass, laughing at each other for being scared to touch me. It was sunny, as afternoons there tended to be, with an undisturbed blue sky. I lay exiled and broken in the shade of a pepper tree that had been recently and extensively pruned. The faint smell of sawdust and gasoline lingered. The lack of low branches disappointed the boys, who were intent on climbing. As they challenged one another to ascend, a sudden gust of wind grabbed my limp wing and twisted me onto my back. I made a feeble noise, a simple reaction to the pain of motion and not intended to attract attention. In fact, I had wanted them to leave me in my miserable solitude. But the suddenness of movement from what they had assumed was a corpse startled the boys, and they were too young to resist their adrenalin-fueled curiousity.
They returned with me in the trunk of their car. As they closed the lid, the darkness leaked from my feathers and stained the air around me. I inhaled several shallow breaths. I loathe self-pity more than any other emotion, but, lying there captive, I lost hope. This was not what I had planned for, and I could see no way out.
After many more, similar dreams, I was able to piece a story together. It seems, you see, that the same raven I remember from childhood was escorted from his physical form in your parents' garage. We two provided the bookends of a life neither of us knew anything about.
That life, I've found, was worth knowing.
After Clyde and I released our young avian friend, he was able to rejoin his unkindness (that's what I've learned a group of ravens is called. Dreadful, isn't it?), and they accepted him. He was first of his generation to master flying, he was even able to fly upside down for seconds at a time. I certainly woke up impressed when he told me that. His prowess extended to everything he did. Because he was not arrogant and was patient and caring, his demeanor won him the respect of his peers and elders. When opportunities for leadership arose, he was tacitly and unanimously appointed, and he never shied from the burdens his community placed on him. Listen to me, I sound like a proud mother. I suppose years of hearing his calm voice at night pleading to be understood, never boasting, may have biased me a bit, but I suppose you could say I am proud of him. Is that so bizarre? I'm too old to care; I'll let you decide. Regardless, and despite his natural abilities, his life was not easy. It is a simple task for those of us who are not subject to the elements, who have gardeners to tend our yards, to forget what it means to live unprotected in the world. His unkindness, because he was so generous and skillful, came to rely on him for nearly everything. He didn't mind the burden, of course, and dispatched each request with the same good-natured dedication he applied to everything. I could never respond to his voice in my dreams, I could never ask questions, though I dearly wanted to. How could he bear it? I wanted to know. Eventually, he shared his secret with me. When he was captured by Clyde, very early in his life, he was terrified. He could hardly breathe, and every muscle was tense to the point of twitching. I could hear the fear in his voice. I wanted to comfort him, tell him that Clyde hadn't meant him harm, but I couldn't. Eventually, his voice regained its calm, and he explained how he had never forgotten how he felt then. Whenever something frightened him, he thought about his anklet, the innocent nametag that Clyde had given him, and he pushed his fear into his foot, knowing that he'd already survived much worse. He imagined the nametag cutting the fear off, isolating it from the rest of his body, and he'd feel better. After that, he said, he wasn't afraid of anything. He eventually learned to control other negative emotions that way: his bitterness, anger, grief, reluctance. Nothing affected him if he didn't want it to. It was not without its dangers, this method. He told me how, with each episode, his foot would feel heavier. Not much, you see, but as the days went on, he could tell. It would not respond as quickly to his desires, and its quiet ache gnawed gently at the edges of his consciousness. Eventually, his foot swelled so that he could hardly stand. There was no more room for his shreds of cowardice, and at the exact time he realized this, he was called upon to chase away another hawk from the territory. He couldn't do it, he was frozen with fear. He could only watch desperately as the hawk took a fledgling from its nest. I remember waking up suddenly when he told me this, sobbing. I didn't hear from him again for an entire heartbreaking month. When I did, he told me how he had been exiled from the unkindness he had done so much for. Mistaking his fear for malice since he'd never been afraid before, they decided he had no place with them. He was devastated, and spent the next week slung in the branches of a tree, immobile. He didn't care to find food, didn't care if he expired entirely. He had no idea what to do, with a swollen foot and no home or friends. The week passed in a blur of despair and confusion. But, unnoticeably, with every negative thought, the swelling in his foot decreased. By the end of the most miserable week of his life, his foot had returned to its normal size, and he was feeling hopeful again. He began eating again, and when he was healthy enough, he picked a direction, and flew for miles. He soon ran into another unkindness, smaller than his old one. They were wary at first, but warmed to his affability and dedication. He stayed with them for a year, earning their respect, and again taking on the burdens of the community. His foot had gradually gotten larger again, but this time he knew what to expect. He left, suddenly and unannounced, and recuperated for another miserable week in anonymity. He told me of many such cycles, flying from one community to another, making his way across oceans and barren stretches of land, running into hostile groups who chased him away immediately, the traveling didn't sound pleasant, believe me. Eventually, however, he ended up on a high school lawn in El Cajon, California, recuperating from a few months of bravery and selflessness. When you and your friends took him home, and noticed his swollen foot, you wanted to help. He knew that, and doesn't blame you. But, when you tried to relieve the swelling by lancing his cyst, you broke the barrier on which he had come to depend. He couldn't recover.
Strange, wouldn't you say? Certainly a strange reason to receive a letter, I can understand you must be a bit taken aback. However, our common link requested to me, in a dream, that I find you and tell you his story. Never mind how I accomplished this; as I've said, my parents were quite well-off, and with their fortune I inherited a wide network of influence. But don't let this frighten you, I know nothing but your address. The method of delivery, however, was supplied by my dream-narrator, who instructed me precisely where to leave this letter. His messenger will also deliver to you the anklet, which he would like you to keep. I see no reason to doubt it will reach you. It's all a bit exciting, really.
Sincerely,
Eugenia
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
middling
Hello to you,
The plaintive cry faded as I continued walking. The bird didn't follow me. Once I was out of earshot, the innocent encounter slipped my mind. I left Stockholm, I left Sweden, I came to Edinburgh. In Scotland, a great many miles away. En route, I met an Iranian-Swedish woman who, with only a little effort, spoke English. She had lost her job of 16 years to a slowing economy, and needed a sympathetic ear. I was born with two incredibly large ears, I am sympathetic sometimes and had a seat in her row. She thought I was older than I am. I knew that I was not, but did not correct her. I said goodbye to her when I caught my connecting flight, during which I slept dreamlessly.
I walked between the bus stop and my apartment, wondering how old I could pass for if I spoke with unblinking confidence.
"I am 33." That might work. Especially if unshaven for several days.
"I am 41." A stretch, but if my conversational companion was drunk enough, perhaps.
I had a small yellow backpack draped over my shoulders with everything I needed for the five day trip. I travel light. Unpacking was easy, and so was resuming routine, which I did. Quickly, and for several days.
A few nights later, my wanderings with drunken friends took me to a location whose name I will conceal to protect its reputation, but to which I have travelled before. I mention this incident for two reasons. The first: to mark down, in some form, the words that, guided by sweet Chance's loving hand, drifted into my ear that night. Upon my trip to the restroom of this establishment, I was confronted with a large, jovial Jamaican man. This man was not a patron of the restroom; he was a porter. When the time came for me to wash my hands, I stepped lightly to the sink at which he stood. There was not much space, and I had to actively avoid his swinging bulk by dipping to one side or the other. He punched the faucet on with a practiced flair and exclaimed, "Come on! Wash your hands." These words he spoke jovially, eyes half-closed above a large smile. Then, he began to sing. A lighthearted, almost-mumbled, bouncing refrain. His accent thickened his words in the air, and by the time they reached my untrained ear they were an unintelligible syrup. As I ran my hands under the water, and as he commenced the third repetition of his entreaty, he meted out my quota of liquid soap. And finally, the identity, meaning, and futility of his words sloughed the last drop of accent and sparkled clearly in my ear. I did not mishear. "Wash your hands. Freshen up. Freshen up with pussy juice." Pussy is slang for the female genitalia. I doubt its juice is sanitary. I didn't want to freshen up that way, so I dried my hands and declined his offer of a spray of cologne. After placing a twenty-pence piece on the tray of assorted coins that he showed to me, I left the restroom. Is this a common practice? Is it an enticing offer? Is he a strange and insane man? The second reason I relate this story: to give a sense of the distance my mind was from swedish birds.
And so, when I came home for the night and stood alone at my window watching the impending sunrise, I was more startled by the bird than I might normally have been. My window ledge is not wide, it is roughly carved stone tinted green from centuries of mist and rain and wet. And suddenly, the bird was there. Perched on the thin strip between myself and the expansive volume of the city. Same black head, same white body. Unmistakeably the same. I stumbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Seated, our eyes were level. She shook, and her ruffled feathers gradually settled back to their indistinguishable smoothness. "Well. Hello," I almost whispered, having only barely regained my composure. Two minutes passed, and I calmed down. The city beyond and below was devoid of other living things, the shade of blue in the sky changed only subliminally, the clouds hovered in place. Nothing moved, and even time seemed to stop.
The bird shuddered and ruffled again, this time twisting her head to jab her beak underneath her wing, like birds do. When her head snapped back from its awkward angle, she had what looked like a feather clutched in her beak. Small, white. Ceremoniously, and with a slowness that made the movement seem unnatural, she bowed down and released it at her feet. It sat there with an unexpected weight and solidity, and I realized it wasn't a feather at all. It was a tight roll of parchment. I reached for it but hesitated, my hand stalled by disbelief and caution in midair. The bird moved her head in a deliberate bird-equivalent of a nod and stared straight at me. "You're right. Why stop now?" So I picked it up, and unrolled it.
The paper was thin, but not brittle, and contained words, written in English with a compact, steady script. Lots of words. And the first one was my name, with a comma after it, like this: 'Walter,'.
I said to the bird, "Bird. This is starting to be weird," and she responded with her unfazed stare. The stare did not let up even momentarily while I read the remainder of the letter. Only when she was sure I had finished did she move at all, and when she did it was quick. She retrieved a small metal band from somewhere beneath her feathers, set it down, turned, and plummeted off the ledge. Quickly, as if she were never there to begin with. I wasn't interested to see where she flew, so I remained seated and picked up the circlet she had left behind. Scuffed, tarnished, scratched, with the symbols SY46 stamped unevenly around its circumference, it was cold to the touch, and much lighter than it looked. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Until the tide turns,
walter
The plaintive cry faded as I continued walking. The bird didn't follow me. Once I was out of earshot, the innocent encounter slipped my mind. I left Stockholm, I left Sweden, I came to Edinburgh. In Scotland, a great many miles away. En route, I met an Iranian-Swedish woman who, with only a little effort, spoke English. She had lost her job of 16 years to a slowing economy, and needed a sympathetic ear. I was born with two incredibly large ears, I am sympathetic sometimes and had a seat in her row. She thought I was older than I am. I knew that I was not, but did not correct her. I said goodbye to her when I caught my connecting flight, during which I slept dreamlessly.
I walked between the bus stop and my apartment, wondering how old I could pass for if I spoke with unblinking confidence.
"I am 33." That might work. Especially if unshaven for several days.
"I am 41." A stretch, but if my conversational companion was drunk enough, perhaps.
I had a small yellow backpack draped over my shoulders with everything I needed for the five day trip. I travel light. Unpacking was easy, and so was resuming routine, which I did. Quickly, and for several days.
A few nights later, my wanderings with drunken friends took me to a location whose name I will conceal to protect its reputation, but to which I have travelled before. I mention this incident for two reasons. The first: to mark down, in some form, the words that, guided by sweet Chance's loving hand, drifted into my ear that night. Upon my trip to the restroom of this establishment, I was confronted with a large, jovial Jamaican man. This man was not a patron of the restroom; he was a porter. When the time came for me to wash my hands, I stepped lightly to the sink at which he stood. There was not much space, and I had to actively avoid his swinging bulk by dipping to one side or the other. He punched the faucet on with a practiced flair and exclaimed, "Come on! Wash your hands." These words he spoke jovially, eyes half-closed above a large smile. Then, he began to sing. A lighthearted, almost-mumbled, bouncing refrain. His accent thickened his words in the air, and by the time they reached my untrained ear they were an unintelligible syrup. As I ran my hands under the water, and as he commenced the third repetition of his entreaty, he meted out my quota of liquid soap. And finally, the identity, meaning, and futility of his words sloughed the last drop of accent and sparkled clearly in my ear. I did not mishear. "Wash your hands. Freshen up. Freshen up with pussy juice." Pussy is slang for the female genitalia. I doubt its juice is sanitary. I didn't want to freshen up that way, so I dried my hands and declined his offer of a spray of cologne. After placing a twenty-pence piece on the tray of assorted coins that he showed to me, I left the restroom. Is this a common practice? Is it an enticing offer? Is he a strange and insane man? The second reason I relate this story: to give a sense of the distance my mind was from swedish birds.
And so, when I came home for the night and stood alone at my window watching the impending sunrise, I was more startled by the bird than I might normally have been. My window ledge is not wide, it is roughly carved stone tinted green from centuries of mist and rain and wet. And suddenly, the bird was there. Perched on the thin strip between myself and the expansive volume of the city. Same black head, same white body. Unmistakeably the same. I stumbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Seated, our eyes were level. She shook, and her ruffled feathers gradually settled back to their indistinguishable smoothness. "Well. Hello," I almost whispered, having only barely regained my composure. Two minutes passed, and I calmed down. The city beyond and below was devoid of other living things, the shade of blue in the sky changed only subliminally, the clouds hovered in place. Nothing moved, and even time seemed to stop.
The bird shuddered and ruffled again, this time twisting her head to jab her beak underneath her wing, like birds do. When her head snapped back from its awkward angle, she had what looked like a feather clutched in her beak. Small, white. Ceremoniously, and with a slowness that made the movement seem unnatural, she bowed down and released it at her feet. It sat there with an unexpected weight and solidity, and I realized it wasn't a feather at all. It was a tight roll of parchment. I reached for it but hesitated, my hand stalled by disbelief and caution in midair. The bird moved her head in a deliberate bird-equivalent of a nod and stared straight at me. "You're right. Why stop now?" So I picked it up, and unrolled it.
The paper was thin, but not brittle, and contained words, written in English with a compact, steady script. Lots of words. And the first one was my name, with a comma after it, like this: 'Walter,'.
I said to the bird, "Bird. This is starting to be weird," and she responded with her unfazed stare. The stare did not let up even momentarily while I read the remainder of the letter. Only when she was sure I had finished did she move at all, and when she did it was quick. She retrieved a small metal band from somewhere beneath her feathers, set it down, turned, and plummeted off the ledge. Quickly, as if she were never there to begin with. I wasn't interested to see where she flew, so I remained seated and picked up the circlet she had left behind. Scuffed, tarnished, scratched, with the symbols SY46 stamped unevenly around its circumference, it was cold to the touch, and much lighter than it looked. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Until the tide turns,
walter
Sunday, April 17, 2005
fågelskrämma
Gentle associates,
In Stockholm, Sweden, there is a musem that displays the mighty warship Vasa, flagship of the 17th century Swedish navy. The towering juggernaut fills four stories of open space from bottom of keel to top of aftcastle. For every gun on each of her two entire decks devoted to cannon, a unique, scowling lion is emblazoned on the port-hole cover. She is coated with sculptures of ancient heroes, and was once fully and resplendently painted so every cur who glanced her way would know: this is the Vasa. In the presence of the dull brown ruin of this ship, the beast's skeleton hanging stationary and cold, it is easy to feel the terrible power she once must have possessed. She would never, in all her years of existence, feel a single steel bite of enemy shot. No ship she engaged would ever escape. On her maiden voyage, not two kilometers from her berth, the Vasa listed heavily to port, took on water through her lower deck of cannon, and sank.
In Stockholm, Sweden, someone has given meticulous and earnest thought to the sounds the city makes. Without equivalent care in observation, a gawking visitor might stumble from museum to museum, reveling in the austerity of the castles or the quaint beauty of the tight, brick streets of the old city, and never recognize the muffled calm of the surroundings. A reversing truck hisses a gentle warning like a suddenly-overgrown cricket who, surprised by his newfound bulk, tests his song softly. Pedestrian crossing signals issue a dull, steady thump to grant passage to the waiting throng. The chorus of distant, metallic woodpeckers fades from ken a few quick steps from the street. Amongst such a city the cries of the birds are an unnatural and unwelcome guest, each shrill salvo piercing fresh wounds in the peaceful membrane that coats the streets.
It was one of these birds, with a trim white body and striking black head, who lit on the bench beside me. Sleek, seagull-sized, completely unfamiliar. She tilted her head to the side and blinked her eyes. Like a bird does: swiftly, purposefully. Each motion the culmination of a long deliberation; the time spent on decision, not the movement itself. I had no food, no crumbs to offer, having finished my lunch an hour earlier and in an altogether different location. I spent a minute staring at the bird, who blinked periodically, before deciding to move on. I prepared to stand up. But as I did, the bird threw open its beak and spread its wings, tottering left and right with small, unsteady steps. Silently, without blurting any squawking protest. The silence was startling. A firm warning, but without more effort than necessary. I was intrigued, and relaxed again. The beak closed, the wings folded softly into the bird's downy torso, and the meaningful stare resumed as before. Smiling, I feigned departure another three or four times. With the patience of a teacher charged with an unruly student, the bird repeated her reprimand. 'Alright,' I said aloud, 'you win. Now what?'
The park where I sat looked out over the water. There were few other people around. It was the middle of the week. And not particularly warm outside. I had bundled up, so the cold did not bother me, but Stockholm is large and my time there was short. I was curious about my avian companion, but didn't want to spend my day waiting for what, after all, was a bird to do what, after all, couldn't be much. So, after another minute, I stood despite the silent protest, and began to walk away. After what couldn't have been more than ten steps, a single note, a bird's call, rang out from behind me. Not a raspy growl, but not cloying either. There was no urgency, no fear. Calm, steady, resonant, a genuine statement performed with the same efficiency that all the bird's actions contained. Genuine, and clear. I was not to leave.
And yet, wary of empty promises, having already spent a good deal of time in the bird's company, I took another hesitant step.
The last has not been heard,
walter
In Stockholm, Sweden, there is a musem that displays the mighty warship Vasa, flagship of the 17th century Swedish navy. The towering juggernaut fills four stories of open space from bottom of keel to top of aftcastle. For every gun on each of her two entire decks devoted to cannon, a unique, scowling lion is emblazoned on the port-hole cover. She is coated with sculptures of ancient heroes, and was once fully and resplendently painted so every cur who glanced her way would know: this is the Vasa. In the presence of the dull brown ruin of this ship, the beast's skeleton hanging stationary and cold, it is easy to feel the terrible power she once must have possessed. She would never, in all her years of existence, feel a single steel bite of enemy shot. No ship she engaged would ever escape. On her maiden voyage, not two kilometers from her berth, the Vasa listed heavily to port, took on water through her lower deck of cannon, and sank.
In Stockholm, Sweden, someone has given meticulous and earnest thought to the sounds the city makes. Without equivalent care in observation, a gawking visitor might stumble from museum to museum, reveling in the austerity of the castles or the quaint beauty of the tight, brick streets of the old city, and never recognize the muffled calm of the surroundings. A reversing truck hisses a gentle warning like a suddenly-overgrown cricket who, surprised by his newfound bulk, tests his song softly. Pedestrian crossing signals issue a dull, steady thump to grant passage to the waiting throng. The chorus of distant, metallic woodpeckers fades from ken a few quick steps from the street. Amongst such a city the cries of the birds are an unnatural and unwelcome guest, each shrill salvo piercing fresh wounds in the peaceful membrane that coats the streets.
It was one of these birds, with a trim white body and striking black head, who lit on the bench beside me. Sleek, seagull-sized, completely unfamiliar. She tilted her head to the side and blinked her eyes. Like a bird does: swiftly, purposefully. Each motion the culmination of a long deliberation; the time spent on decision, not the movement itself. I had no food, no crumbs to offer, having finished my lunch an hour earlier and in an altogether different location. I spent a minute staring at the bird, who blinked periodically, before deciding to move on. I prepared to stand up. But as I did, the bird threw open its beak and spread its wings, tottering left and right with small, unsteady steps. Silently, without blurting any squawking protest. The silence was startling. A firm warning, but without more effort than necessary. I was intrigued, and relaxed again. The beak closed, the wings folded softly into the bird's downy torso, and the meaningful stare resumed as before. Smiling, I feigned departure another three or four times. With the patience of a teacher charged with an unruly student, the bird repeated her reprimand. 'Alright,' I said aloud, 'you win. Now what?'
The park where I sat looked out over the water. There were few other people around. It was the middle of the week. And not particularly warm outside. I had bundled up, so the cold did not bother me, but Stockholm is large and my time there was short. I was curious about my avian companion, but didn't want to spend my day waiting for what, after all, was a bird to do what, after all, couldn't be much. So, after another minute, I stood despite the silent protest, and began to walk away. After what couldn't have been more than ten steps, a single note, a bird's call, rang out from behind me. Not a raspy growl, but not cloying either. There was no urgency, no fear. Calm, steady, resonant, a genuine statement performed with the same efficiency that all the bird's actions contained. Genuine, and clear. I was not to leave.
And yet, wary of empty promises, having already spent a good deal of time in the bird's company, I took another hesitant step.
The last has not been heard,
walter
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
protea
Dear friends,
Today I learned with much delight that the national flower of south africa is the protea. Here is a story about change:
Tonight I went for a walk. This walk was a happy walk, there was no sad meandering tonight. I strode along the empty street, past a pawnbroker and a homemade chocolate store and towering walls of nondescript buildings that bled into each other and were broken only by the few intersecting roads. Everything was long since shut for the night, of course, but the entire city hummed. The street, sparkling with runoff and collected mist, the clouds, looming grey and close above the craning lamps, the sidewalk, uncluttered by diurnal scurrying feet, all oscillated imperceptibly. It started low at first, the hum, so low I couldn't hear it. But as I walked the pitch increased, the shaking crossed the liminal threshold. As my shoes met the pavement, I could feel vibrations in my shins, but they were not painful. It was the sensation of alignment.
from a happy person,
walter
Today I learned with much delight that the national flower of south africa is the protea. Here is a story about change:
Tonight I went for a walk. This walk was a happy walk, there was no sad meandering tonight. I strode along the empty street, past a pawnbroker and a homemade chocolate store and towering walls of nondescript buildings that bled into each other and were broken only by the few intersecting roads. Everything was long since shut for the night, of course, but the entire city hummed. The street, sparkling with runoff and collected mist, the clouds, looming grey and close above the craning lamps, the sidewalk, uncluttered by diurnal scurrying feet, all oscillated imperceptibly. It started low at first, the hum, so low I couldn't hear it. But as I walked the pitch increased, the shaking crossed the liminal threshold. As my shoes met the pavement, I could feel vibrations in my shins, but they were not painful. It was the sensation of alignment.
from a happy person,
walter
Thursday, January 27, 2005
prolix
Regards,
Edinburgh is fairly clean, as far as cities go. The unavoidable gumspots dot the sidewalk, but, where in other cities there would be discarded fastfood bags and pizza boxes, here there is clean stone. Don't be mistaken, the dark denizens who haunt the pubs do their best to scar the streets, smashing used cigarettes with their shoes before stumbling home to sleep. But there is a force that no ragged drunk can overcome, which rages through the teeming city crying fell dominion. The city retreats into itself as the invisible chthonophage scourges it clean.
I seal the cracks in my window with tissues to keep it out, and it beats protest against the panes. If I play my music loud enough, I can't hear its complaints, and watch from comfort as it shuttles the chaff left to right. When the weather abates, everything is gone. But to where?
A few weeks ago, I constructed a sail in preparation for the next storm.
When my window began to rattle, I attached my sail with sturdy rope to a harness, and strapped the harness on. In various pockets, I stowed water and mixed nuts for energy, just in case. I opened the window, ready to deploy the sail and see where the wind would take me. Before I could act, the wind reached in and yanked me out. I must have hit my head on the sill, because I can't remember what happened next. My sail probably worked, though, because I awoke with no more than a mild headache and a few abrasions on my left arm, and definitely nowhere I recognized.
I was lying on a dusty surface, dirt with a few tufts of grass. The harness was still strapped to me, so I groggily loosened it before standing and looking around. It was a hazy twilight, I could see about twenty feet before lines faded into a neutral, streetlight-orange fog.
There was an alleyway behind me, and two stone walls stretched away from it. The wind down the alley was strong enough to impede a much stronger person than myself, so I put it to my back and wandered into the silent fog.
You can't see ghosts, you can't hear them. Old houses and restaurants that claim to be haunted by wailing victims and forlorn, jealous lovers that toss plates in the storeroom have always annoyed me. You smell ghosts, and that's all. It's a mundane cryptaesthesia, one we all unwittingly possess. There, between the exhaust from buses and the soup boiling over on the stove, in the olfactory cracks, exists a record of the past.
I don't believe in ghosts, but if I did, my foggy surroundings would be the place I'd go to encounter them. It wasn't pleasant to breathe, the piles of collected refuse that faded in and out of sight while I walked reeked of decay.
After wandering for a while, I met an old man. He was not tall, he had thin, wiry white hair that shot from his head like motion-lines drawn by an overeager 10-year-old cartoonist. He was eating a sandwich. I introduced myself, and he said hello. I offered him some of my mixed nuts, because what else was I supposed to do. His eyes lit up and he took them with a word of thanks. I asked him to tell me where I was, and his eyes clouded over again. In a distant and wistful voice, he said this was not a place for someone like me. Before I could ask any more of him he wheeled his wide-eyed head around, flipped me off, and told me to leave immediately.
I would have been happy to oblige, but I wasn't quite sure how, so I continued walking. Eventually, I met the wall again, and followed it back to the alleyway.
I didn't bring many clothes to Edinburgh, mostly because I couldn't fit them in my luggage and I didn't want to ship anything here. So few clothes, in fact, that I was familiar with each piece, and had a mental catalogue of my sartorial resources. I do my laundry in a little room that I need to walk outside to reach. Earlier this year, I lost a sock from my favorite pair. I didn't know what happened to it, but my post-laundry audit came up one short, and its lonely partner sat unused in a drawer.
This time, when the alleyway's outline sharpened out of the fog, there was something unfamiliar about the scene. On the ground there was a large manila envelope, and a piece of paper. I opened the envelope, and there was my sock. It sparkled white at the bottom of the envelope, it was just as I remembered it. I was surprised, and happy.
Turning my attention to the piece of paper, I noticed it contained the following words written in faded grey ink:
You are free to go. If you leave your sock as an offering, the wind will continue to blow. If you take your sock, the wind will leave Edinburgh. Be careful, do not choose hastily.
I took my sock, of course, because I don't have many. I walked down the alley into an unfamiliar street. I didn't take note of where the entrance was, I walked until I recognized familiar landmarks, and came home. There hasn't been a windy day since. As I walk to class, or the grocery store, I happily kick soda cans with a spring in my step and glance down at my complete pair of awesome socks.
take care of yourself,
walter
Edinburgh is fairly clean, as far as cities go. The unavoidable gumspots dot the sidewalk, but, where in other cities there would be discarded fastfood bags and pizza boxes, here there is clean stone. Don't be mistaken, the dark denizens who haunt the pubs do their best to scar the streets, smashing used cigarettes with their shoes before stumbling home to sleep. But there is a force that no ragged drunk can overcome, which rages through the teeming city crying fell dominion. The city retreats into itself as the invisible chthonophage scourges it clean.
I seal the cracks in my window with tissues to keep it out, and it beats protest against the panes. If I play my music loud enough, I can't hear its complaints, and watch from comfort as it shuttles the chaff left to right. When the weather abates, everything is gone. But to where?
A few weeks ago, I constructed a sail in preparation for the next storm.
When my window began to rattle, I attached my sail with sturdy rope to a harness, and strapped the harness on. In various pockets, I stowed water and mixed nuts for energy, just in case. I opened the window, ready to deploy the sail and see where the wind would take me. Before I could act, the wind reached in and yanked me out. I must have hit my head on the sill, because I can't remember what happened next. My sail probably worked, though, because I awoke with no more than a mild headache and a few abrasions on my left arm, and definitely nowhere I recognized.
I was lying on a dusty surface, dirt with a few tufts of grass. The harness was still strapped to me, so I groggily loosened it before standing and looking around. It was a hazy twilight, I could see about twenty feet before lines faded into a neutral, streetlight-orange fog.
There was an alleyway behind me, and two stone walls stretched away from it. The wind down the alley was strong enough to impede a much stronger person than myself, so I put it to my back and wandered into the silent fog.
You can't see ghosts, you can't hear them. Old houses and restaurants that claim to be haunted by wailing victims and forlorn, jealous lovers that toss plates in the storeroom have always annoyed me. You smell ghosts, and that's all. It's a mundane cryptaesthesia, one we all unwittingly possess. There, between the exhaust from buses and the soup boiling over on the stove, in the olfactory cracks, exists a record of the past.
I don't believe in ghosts, but if I did, my foggy surroundings would be the place I'd go to encounter them. It wasn't pleasant to breathe, the piles of collected refuse that faded in and out of sight while I walked reeked of decay.
After wandering for a while, I met an old man. He was not tall, he had thin, wiry white hair that shot from his head like motion-lines drawn by an overeager 10-year-old cartoonist. He was eating a sandwich. I introduced myself, and he said hello. I offered him some of my mixed nuts, because what else was I supposed to do. His eyes lit up and he took them with a word of thanks. I asked him to tell me where I was, and his eyes clouded over again. In a distant and wistful voice, he said this was not a place for someone like me. Before I could ask any more of him he wheeled his wide-eyed head around, flipped me off, and told me to leave immediately.
I would have been happy to oblige, but I wasn't quite sure how, so I continued walking. Eventually, I met the wall again, and followed it back to the alleyway.
I didn't bring many clothes to Edinburgh, mostly because I couldn't fit them in my luggage and I didn't want to ship anything here. So few clothes, in fact, that I was familiar with each piece, and had a mental catalogue of my sartorial resources. I do my laundry in a little room that I need to walk outside to reach. Earlier this year, I lost a sock from my favorite pair. I didn't know what happened to it, but my post-laundry audit came up one short, and its lonely partner sat unused in a drawer.
This time, when the alleyway's outline sharpened out of the fog, there was something unfamiliar about the scene. On the ground there was a large manila envelope, and a piece of paper. I opened the envelope, and there was my sock. It sparkled white at the bottom of the envelope, it was just as I remembered it. I was surprised, and happy.
Turning my attention to the piece of paper, I noticed it contained the following words written in faded grey ink:
You are free to go. If you leave your sock as an offering, the wind will continue to blow. If you take your sock, the wind will leave Edinburgh. Be careful, do not choose hastily.
I took my sock, of course, because I don't have many. I walked down the alley into an unfamiliar street. I didn't take note of where the entrance was, I walked until I recognized familiar landmarks, and came home. There hasn't been a windy day since. As I walk to class, or the grocery store, I happily kick soda cans with a spring in my step and glance down at my complete pair of awesome socks.
take care of yourself,
walter
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
peregrination
Please help me,
Today there is white on the ground and in the air. This is not a normal thing for me, I am frightened by the flecks that land on my window and the absence of the grass. Where did the grass go, and why is it no longer green where the grass should be? In the program called paint, you can select a little bucket, and select the color white, and change the grass on any picture you want, but then it is empty like you never had drawn anything to begin with.
Here's a story that I will tell to comfort myself:
This is Antipodes, the wayward tortoise.
"What's a tortoise?" I make you ask naively.
You may be familiar with turtles, and you may be familiar with terrapins. Turtles live in water, terrapins on land. Tortoises, their element: the air. High amongst the treetops, slowly, gracefully flinging themselves branch to branch. A majestic sight as they glide.
Now that you are familiar, we join the wayward tortoise years ago as he reposes idly in the joint between two massive branches of a fig tree. He calls this fig tree home. It is a temporary label, for the wayward tortoise truly has no home. Infrequently does he have the time for idleness, so he enjoys it while he can. From his vantage, he can see the trees stretch away into the distance, down a gentle slope, and the view causes a moment of self-reflection.
"I am the king of the canopy," he thinks, with no hint of arrogance, and the moment is over.
This is Trudy, the friendly worm. Though friendly, Trudy has no friends. On this day, at this exact point in time, she happens to be in the fig-tree home of the wayward tortoise. From her vantage point, Trudy can't see anything, nor could she from any other vantage point.
The wayward tortoise chooses this moment, this precise instant, to take his gaze from the slope below. He spots Trudy, and reaches out his neck and head and mouth to lazily chomp her up. Yet, he hesitates, and finally withdraws his powerful jaws.
Sensing the maliferous bulk beside her, Trudy begins to communicate, with the deference typical of a friendly annelid, "O great and gentle beast, I beseech you hear my plea. I am but a lowly worm, with naught but kindness and my name to keep me warm. To you, who has so much, I can offer little in return for clemency."
The wayward tortoise, intrigued by this eloquent worm, comforts it with his kind words, "You have nothing to fear."
The two conversed long into the night, and so it came to pass that two journeys became one. When a bird or squirrel came to threaten Trudy with ingestion, the wayward tortoise would protect her. When the wayward tortoise grew hungry, Trudy would offer a few segments of herself, which she would later regrow. Their teamwork and friendship won them renown in the hearts and minds of the forest creatures. And that's pretty much the end I guess.
Sincerely,
walter
Today there is white on the ground and in the air. This is not a normal thing for me, I am frightened by the flecks that land on my window and the absence of the grass. Where did the grass go, and why is it no longer green where the grass should be? In the program called paint, you can select a little bucket, and select the color white, and change the grass on any picture you want, but then it is empty like you never had drawn anything to begin with.
Here's a story that I will tell to comfort myself:
This is Antipodes, the wayward tortoise.
"What's a tortoise?" I make you ask naively.
You may be familiar with turtles, and you may be familiar with terrapins. Turtles live in water, terrapins on land. Tortoises, their element: the air. High amongst the treetops, slowly, gracefully flinging themselves branch to branch. A majestic sight as they glide.
Now that you are familiar, we join the wayward tortoise years ago as he reposes idly in the joint between two massive branches of a fig tree. He calls this fig tree home. It is a temporary label, for the wayward tortoise truly has no home. Infrequently does he have the time for idleness, so he enjoys it while he can. From his vantage, he can see the trees stretch away into the distance, down a gentle slope, and the view causes a moment of self-reflection.
"I am the king of the canopy," he thinks, with no hint of arrogance, and the moment is over.
This is Trudy, the friendly worm. Though friendly, Trudy has no friends. On this day, at this exact point in time, she happens to be in the fig-tree home of the wayward tortoise. From her vantage point, Trudy can't see anything, nor could she from any other vantage point.
The wayward tortoise chooses this moment, this precise instant, to take his gaze from the slope below. He spots Trudy, and reaches out his neck and head and mouth to lazily chomp her up. Yet, he hesitates, and finally withdraws his powerful jaws.
Sensing the maliferous bulk beside her, Trudy begins to communicate, with the deference typical of a friendly annelid, "O great and gentle beast, I beseech you hear my plea. I am but a lowly worm, with naught but kindness and my name to keep me warm. To you, who has so much, I can offer little in return for clemency."
The wayward tortoise, intrigued by this eloquent worm, comforts it with his kind words, "You have nothing to fear."
The two conversed long into the night, and so it came to pass that two journeys became one. When a bird or squirrel came to threaten Trudy with ingestion, the wayward tortoise would protect her. When the wayward tortoise grew hungry, Trudy would offer a few segments of herself, which she would later regrow. Their teamwork and friendship won them renown in the hearts and minds of the forest creatures. And that's pretty much the end I guess.
Sincerely,
walter
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Resumption
Greetings from Scotland once again,
Several commercial flights ago, I temporarily adopted an old man. Though he was most certainly of Indian descent, my private name for him was Boris Van Der Waal. Boris because I feel the name is grossly underused in both my life and this, my blog. Van Der Waal because it ties it together, after a fashion.
Well there it is, the whole point of the story, naked and premature. Allow me to incubate and see what develops.
Put your small bags completely beneath the seat in front of you, we appreciate your cooperation as this will be a full flight. Wending my skinny way amidst the Brownian throng, I always manage to board near first, and as restitution I promptly find my way to the back and settle in next to the window, waiting to see which fellow traveller will sit beside me. Most of the time, no one does. The sole empty space on the plane is the middle seat in my row. Am I that intimidating? Part of me likes to think so, the same part that might enjoy knifehunting or raw meat or politics. But this is not the point.
Boris, among the last passengers to arrive, shakily sat down in the aisle seat, and directed either a nod or an involuntary jerk of the head at me, which I returned. He looked at least seventy, small, balding, and wrinkled. After takeoff, I shut my eyes for a little nap, but heard the rustling of blankets and magazines and jackets. I opened my eyes to see Boris making a pile against my armrest. Curious. He swiveled in his chair, put his head on the pile, and shifted around. What little hair he had left brushed against my arm. The entire affair startled me, this was a practice entirely new in my experience. He said to the stowed middle tray table, I am old, can I lay down. Didn't ask, just calmly conveyed. I was in no real way inconvenienced, and had no real influence, so I said sure. The people across the aisle laughed, and made comments under their breath about poor old Boris, and eventually the attendant came and asked him to sit up. Boris was not happy about this, and protested. I am old. He stayed as he was, and I told the attendant it was fine. She left him alone.
When it came time for peanuts to be distributed, Boris sat upright. He received two packets, and said I want more. He was calmly informed that there weren't enough for everyone, and repeated I want more. Turning to me with more fury than I expected from an old man he said From Dallas they gave me more, why can't I get more, this is ridiculous. He tried reaching into the basket the attendant carried, but was unsuccessful against his more nimble adversary, who stepped ahead an aisle with a dismissive grunt. Poor old Boris. Only two peanut packets. Which are unsatisfyingly small. Boris sulked, arms crossed, acataleptically muttering something about Dallas and his righteous ire.
When it came time for peanuts to cease distribution, I excused myself to the bathroom, and on my way back asked the attendant for two more packets, which were kindly and promptly given, since there had been a little more than the passengers had wanted. Except Boris. I sat down again, and gave him my winnings. Only two peanut packets, which are unsatisfyingly small. He was ecstatic. It was me and Boris, interstitial comrades, united against the airborn waitstaff, and he appreciated the help.
We left the plane, and I walked much faster than Boris could. I never saw him again, nor will I, and I am indifferent to this.
until the planets align,
walter
Several commercial flights ago, I temporarily adopted an old man. Though he was most certainly of Indian descent, my private name for him was Boris Van Der Waal. Boris because I feel the name is grossly underused in both my life and this, my blog. Van Der Waal because it ties it together, after a fashion.
Well there it is, the whole point of the story, naked and premature. Allow me to incubate and see what develops.
Put your small bags completely beneath the seat in front of you, we appreciate your cooperation as this will be a full flight. Wending my skinny way amidst the Brownian throng, I always manage to board near first, and as restitution I promptly find my way to the back and settle in next to the window, waiting to see which fellow traveller will sit beside me. Most of the time, no one does. The sole empty space on the plane is the middle seat in my row. Am I that intimidating? Part of me likes to think so, the same part that might enjoy knifehunting or raw meat or politics. But this is not the point.
Boris, among the last passengers to arrive, shakily sat down in the aisle seat, and directed either a nod or an involuntary jerk of the head at me, which I returned. He looked at least seventy, small, balding, and wrinkled. After takeoff, I shut my eyes for a little nap, but heard the rustling of blankets and magazines and jackets. I opened my eyes to see Boris making a pile against my armrest. Curious. He swiveled in his chair, put his head on the pile, and shifted around. What little hair he had left brushed against my arm. The entire affair startled me, this was a practice entirely new in my experience. He said to the stowed middle tray table, I am old, can I lay down. Didn't ask, just calmly conveyed. I was in no real way inconvenienced, and had no real influence, so I said sure. The people across the aisle laughed, and made comments under their breath about poor old Boris, and eventually the attendant came and asked him to sit up. Boris was not happy about this, and protested. I am old. He stayed as he was, and I told the attendant it was fine. She left him alone.
When it came time for peanuts to be distributed, Boris sat upright. He received two packets, and said I want more. He was calmly informed that there weren't enough for everyone, and repeated I want more. Turning to me with more fury than I expected from an old man he said From Dallas they gave me more, why can't I get more, this is ridiculous. He tried reaching into the basket the attendant carried, but was unsuccessful against his more nimble adversary, who stepped ahead an aisle with a dismissive grunt. Poor old Boris. Only two peanut packets. Which are unsatisfyingly small. Boris sulked, arms crossed, acataleptically muttering something about Dallas and his righteous ire.
When it came time for peanuts to cease distribution, I excused myself to the bathroom, and on my way back asked the attendant for two more packets, which were kindly and promptly given, since there had been a little more than the passengers had wanted. Except Boris. I sat down again, and gave him my winnings. Only two peanut packets, which are unsatisfyingly small. He was ecstatic. It was me and Boris, interstitial comrades, united against the airborn waitstaff, and he appreciated the help.
We left the plane, and I walked much faster than Boris could. I never saw him again, nor will I, and I am indifferent to this.
until the planets align,
walter
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