Friends, let me begin by saying hello and thank you! I am so happy and honored to have become the second longest ponytail! I have here my first post, which may seem too
Lauren recently told Emo Jenni and I about all the dead things (mostly birds) she has seen in the last week. A dead hummingbird on 24th (?), a dead butterfly in the street, there were more. Emo Jenni added to the list, too.
Today as I washed some blinds in our backyard a pigeon fell (from the tree?) and it was so screwed up it already looked dead. A broken wing, all wet or greasy or oily (I'm so paranoid about the Greenpoint Oil Spill), lots of missing feathers, and you could see its spine when it bent over; I thought to myself, if I were a pigeon, I'd think death had come to get me. It hung out with me while I cleaned, drinking water at my feet and unphased by my movements/proximity. If I was moneyed I would have saved it, because it was the sweetest and cutest pigeon ever.
I forgot to mention to Lauren and Emo Jenni that my last week of college I saw one-to-many dead birds a day. The last one I saw was on the way to visit my very dear 92 year old friend for what I knew would be the last time, and I almost stepped on it. This left me standing in the street outside of her house sobbing.
The question is this: the dead birds obviously represented so many things for me then: the death of college, of relationships and memories, of security, of pubescent adulthood. But what's with the strange dead birds now? I feel like my friend today was hopeful in some way. Unless when I bring the blinds in tonight it's lying stone cold on the concrete.
