A family of robins moved into my yard. Two adults, two fat fledglings, one just a little fatter than the other.
The fledglings eat constantly, and it is a wonder how many worms the adults manage to find to feed them day after day after day.
I was thrilled at first. These delightful visitors, my guests, evidence of life happening!
And then the lawn furniture. The patio, the spot under the tree where I like to read.
Bombarded. Destroyed with the collective birdshit of two adults, two fledglings, one just a little fatter than the other.
That fat little bastard, who eats all the worms then perches over my spot, more than seems necessary.
Do you see me, little bird? Can you see me watching you? I know what you are doing. I see you.
So it occurs to me that the robins have perhaps worn out their welcome. They have turned theory into practice and ruined it with consequence.
And of course, they haven’t done anything.
They are birds.
That is what I tell myself now, because I can.
The questions were unexpected and extraordinary.
“Are you raising ducklings?”
“How are you going to keep a duck in the city??”
“Will that be good for the ducks, especially with the dog being there???”
No mention of the fact that the duckling – at turns named Donald and Daisy and Howard and Daffy; at turns referred to as “it” or “they” – has two heads, or upon closer inspection (but not that close, isn’t the wooden stand a dead giveaway?) are clearly not alive.
All of the sudden, a two-headed duckling living in the city, being raised in my apartment and with my dog around, was as plain as the beaks on their faces. The real issue, the one more vital than the simple, evident fact of their existence, was my terrible and selfish decision to take the duckling home with me.
It was touching, in a way, and also remarkable; this concern for something so small and innocent. People do have a way of getting past the obvious.
I cleared the air (Everyone! These are fake real ducklings. Please stop asking how I am going to raise a duck in the city!), and laughed and laughed.
Soon after, I put the duckling under glass to keep the dust off of them.
And now I sometimes catch myself looking at it, terrified they cannot breathe.
… in the meantime, I often find myself having to find ways to amuse myself.
A silent “t” added to every “but” I say aloud!
It is great fun and economical to boot (“But, he’s getting it done” v. “Butt, he’s getting it done!”), although of course saying that it is cost-free is another thing almost entirely.
There are hazards to a-skew-ing the language. Meaning and definition conflating, oral and auditory flung into wicked identity crisis. Brain farts. Diarrhea of the mouth. Tongues tied, hands wrung, etc.
“But” –> Butt
It falls apart at Butte, Montana.
That e doesn’t not make “but” butt but “Butte”.
So that when I say “Butte” I’ve got to know what I’m saying.
Filed under Hobbies, Words
So the apocalypse didn’t happen?
It seems, then, that I’ve now got a bit more time to continue on with my hobby: drafting my epitaph.
Keep on Truckin’
It keeps me busy. And it’s F-R-E-E!
Here, so far, are the contenders:
- “Enough Already.”
- “This is Absolutely Not Me at My Best.”
- “Excuse Me. For Living.”
- “Poopsicle = Poo Popsicle.”
- NO ROBERT FROST
- “I’m NOT a Feminist. But…”
- “Wait. Wait, wait, wait!”
- “Grateful to Have Lived in the Golden Age of Injectable Soft-Tissue Fillers.”
- “It’s Not You. It’s Me.”
- “Tiger Balm Cures (almost) Everything.”
- “I’m Hungry.”
- “Chemistry was the worst!! Have a nice summer!”
- “Kony 2012.”
- “And I Never Got to Ride That Pony.”
- “Wish You Were Here.”
The final draft, though!
That will be the tricky bit.
Filed under Hobbies, Words