Pájaro
Well I wake in the morning and I go outside, outside of my own mental meanderings or the songs in my head. Enter into Telegram for news from outside of psyops misleading media. I take a deep breath and I get ready to die to one more edification of civilization.
Here is the crisis of modern medicine in the modern world. We cant cure you but we can put you out of your misery. New laws in Canada and Holland allow for euthanasia of babies up to one year old when their condition is believed to be beyond the reach of modern medicine. Could it be we now suffer infant conditions as the result of modern medicine? The world medicine has long been waging war inside our bodies, financed by faceless priests of corporate pharmacies, dispensing one new poison after another. As soon as we discover the evils of one long used drug, another one takes its place, invading mother and child with impunity. Furthermore, who gets to say a baby is beyond help? Doctor God People? See Common Denominator for more news that is beyond belief. Or stay in the mainstream where believing is easy and equally pernicious.
There comes another bird in the wood stove this afternoon. Nesting season for sparrows that enter the chimney in search of place and end up down the flue. This one is creating a racket more than most. Must the chimney sweep come again to cover their dark entrance, cap it for springtime when birds come to nest? In their lust for a bed, the sparrows fall down the stove pipe and are trapped. They cannot fall or fly back up and out.
Whenever this happens I think of the people, like a small flock of birds, still in the cult. Fallen down a tunnel of love that ends in a trap below, before they realize what has happened. All in said the penismind, and there is no getting out.
The bird today is really freaking. They all do a bit but this one way more than most, not only flapping but screeching loudly, too. I open all the doors to the outside wide and open the stove door last. The bird flies out to the highest light, speedily bumping into the glass of the skylight. Either we cap the chimney in springtime or install skylights that open so the birds can get out. Maybe someone in the cult, recently groomed by the penismind, is also freaking out, trapped in his design, falling toward a unseen trap in the deep below.
That bird beat against the skylight again and again, relentlessly flapping, wild and scared. I didnt know what to do. I thought I could think a way out for the disoriented being, imagining in my minds eye the way for it to follow. I have no clue how to communicate with birds, little dinosaurs. Little scared dinosaur. Maybe not scared. Maybe merely trying very hard to get out.
I left the room and returned only when I heard the sound of bird hitting glass. Of three glass panels only one opens and the little dinosaur missed the opening. I saw him looking dim and dazed on a high perch indoors. As he slowly came to, the anxiety he displayed earlier returned as well. I think it was anxiety. Who talks to birds or understands their manners? I cant remember anything I learned from Loren Eiseley so many years ago. Why didnt I study Audubon?
I left the room again and came back an hour later. The bird was gone. The doors still stood open and heat was pouring into the house from a strange day in May, too hot. Similar to the bird, too anxious. All told and altogether, it might be a fable about fear that drives us to beating our wings against an impossible exit. It might be about not getting into a flap right off the bat, even if feeling trapped in a strange and unforeseen situation. If there is no discernible way out, better to be still until a door opens, the heat pours in and the next move becomes clear as day. Tread lightly over the threshold. Leave quietly without haste or fuss.
For a second chance in the out of doors, we move with reverence. A slow pace, deliberate in every motion. This time empty of direction the second time around. We know all the ways. We are no longer wandering where we dont belong.
The second time leaping the steppingstones between two languages digitally. Then two more texts before the secret code unlocks the entrance. Payment is mercifully allowed on faith, deposited under a cushion on the rattan settee inside the gate. In the new times of convenience we are often kept at arms length from each other. Yet! revolution happens in staying connected and in conversation and with our arms linked. Anarchy begins now with the human touch, and our voices unified for the sake of life and living it together. Juntos como españoles.
The second time putting our feet up and looking down at the multiple tones of beige and rose in infinite shapes of stone gravel, then looking up into water sculpted caves and miracle growth sprouted in stone.
This time in the garden, even as the bells are tolling insistently and threatening all the way from times long gone. The second time with awe of what is made from natures frequencies, still humming in the centre of a ring road roaring. Every conceivable shade and tint and lustre of green. Bark of every texture, grit and sheen. Blooms on their verge. Upright angled flowing forms unbound. Here in a world of real information where all our cues have come from.
Beyond the garden gate are the extremities of reflected imitation, many more bells intruding. This second time to rest, in the place where bones and porphyrins evolved, a place we once belonged inside of. We felt accustomed to wings and pollen in flurries or updrafts breathing there. Our secret history is whispering. Dont go. Even though the bells are sounding close.