The last life was a shitty one, so I got up on ‘the dog’ and left town. Sent on one thing in advance, FedEx, cause I knew where I was going. I would just pick it up when I got my new feet on the ground, and a couple irons in the fire. But that was pretty basically it: my backpack stuffed with stuff till the seams nearly popped, and $40 cash…my dear friends bought me the ticket cause The Goddess Blesses Though Not Limited To: happy clowns, kittens, Mad Dogs & Englishmen, and “the child that has its own” from what I hear. I didn’t have my own. So in spite of it all, as mentioned; I left…
The next life wasn’t so shitty; as it was different. And that all started when I came into town. A Greyhound full of cramp’y people gathering up all twisting their necks around from trying to sleep somehow then impatiently glaring at the driver as he dallies with a studied sloth before opening the cargo bay, crabby kids wriggling in their seats & mother’s arms or a dad; maybe a dad who knows: slapping the back of a head, twisting a little arm into shock & silence after miles & miles of darkness past milk stops with only a light here or there, bouncing headlights so far off they look like little diamonds. A gas station/liquor store with a busted out: window. Rain smudged signs: 10 for $1, 3 for $5; Closed: Out Of Business, Under New Management, Rock Garden/Lapidary/Agates, No Services Next 135 miles;
But sunshine too shining down bathed on amber waves of teeming grain, tall-ass corn that made me think about that nasty kid that sent people there for no good reason the little shit…sunflowers, some produce so low “not much taller than my ankles” is what I thought at the time, but so small and far away I couldn’t really tell what they were and all past purple-mountain’s, and their majesty. Tractors that seemed to be growing little more than dust clouds, out where the buffalo used to roam I guess. And giant, walking rain birds spritzing huge volumes of water in great & low arcs & droplets soaking the ground, moistening the air as birds swoop in & out of the rainbows they cause, some pecking for prize on the: ground. But then,
Just another bus station full of stale Kit Kat’s & warm-flat-Pepsi, rock hard Juicy Fruit gum, and people heading off to somewhere else, in some other direction, some in the direction I just came from, their grim & staring faces beside restrooms that provided little rest while harboring stank, ill stench instead if still somehow lined with long since outdated, cracked & broken tiles. Ah, riding the dog…
Still…thank The Goddess it was done. I was there, I am here. Some say here is where you are supposed to be, here, though I do have certain & specific thoughts about that as well.
But when ‘the dog’ rolled into the depot I flat-out longed for a proper fascist like Roberto Mussolini anyways making his trains, and I presume his buses too, run on time; cause ours was some 2 hours, 40 minutes
early jeebus! Too early to expect my dearest friends here to forgo their regimen just to come and pick me up I resolved to wait.
In either event can you believe that even ‘the dog’ actually gave an excuse for being too early at times like this? You can? Then can you believe that the excuse the driver read into the coach, to us: his bleary eyed cast of wee, early, early morning travelers with cricks in our necks wondering now just why we were rumbling otherwise motionless beside yet another corn field in the dead of night, where unlit dark nothingness resides on the other like a black hole, a creepy sentient thing; from the bent corners of a piece of crumpled paper, miles & miles before
this moment in time; was
itself time & date stamped by the DHLS? With a strange little bar-code thingy issued by the DOD? Cause he actually showed some of us? Cause some of us were a little skeptical? Yeah?
Then this little story is for you.
I did gather up my backpack from the bottom, in the back & behind many others after they traipsed off trundling, slung over my shoulder. And trundled off myself into the station looking: round, warily. It was low-grade chaos, even for the wee morning hours in my opinion. Players still up and still: playing. More grim & staring faces, more crabby: kids. Young lovers huddling very near, practically falling into each other, so they maybe won’t lose themselves in the shuffle, the din from outside spilling in from the streets. Panhandlers, I did find a seat though and sat for a little bit just wondering about things. Waiting for dawn when I would place my call.
A cagy panhandler himself almost tried, but he must have read the sorrows, the jaded lines etched onto my poker face and decided otherwise. Cause he just tipped his filthy ball cap, nodded, and walked away. Which was fine: by me.
Splashing a little recycled city water on my face in yet another ‘restroom’ I felt a little better, and with backpack slung I took it all outside onto the streets. Where I was slapped the din: itself. More to the point: the source of…the din above filtering down and all around every person within it’s charge. Crows. Thousands and thousands of: crows. All cawing, a cacophony of cawing: crows. Perched on every available, conceivable perch: street light stands, trees (this town is called ‘river city’, but it is also referred to as ‘tree city’, and you will never understand that handle unless & until you see thousands & thousands of crow perched in them), every branch, every telephone, or power line. Every ledge, window sill, edges of the tops of each downtown city building as far as the eye could see. Everywhere…crows; cawing. So thick the trees were seen as having been stuffed now with fluttering, cawing: black leaves as far as the eye could see. The source of this contiguous, thudding: din.
And yet…
People still going about their business, taking no note, still muddled still bright it didn’t matter; still trundling off & away. So curious that I stood there and began to feel lighter myself.
Time passed, and I could see the faint glow of the sun coming from the east, rising up as the crows continued they’re portend; portend? Oh yes. Edgar Allen has given crows by extension a very bad rap. Ravens: too. Crows are revered, i.e.
‘For Tlingit Indians (North-West of the Pacific), the crow is the main divine character. He organizes the world, gives civilization and culture, creates and frees the sun...For Haïda Indians (North-western coast of the Canada), the crow will steal the sun from the sky's master, to give it to the earth's people. Raven has also a magic canoe : he can make it change its size, from the pine needle size, to big enough to contain the whole universe.
In North America, he is the personification of the Supreme Being. When he flaps his wings he creates the wind, the thunder and the lightning.
In Mithra's cult, he can fight evil spells.
Scandinavians legends show two crows, perched on Odin's seat: Hugi, the Spirit, and Munnin, the Memory. They symbolize the principle of creation. In the same way, these birds are the companions of Wotan ("the God with the crows").
The crow was sacred for the Celts. He was associated to the creation of Lugdunum (Lyon), city of the God Lug. Lug is the great solar god. He has the form of a crow and is assimilated to Apollo.
The crow is also in the Bible: he brings bread to man, alone in the desert. Prophet Elie, Saint Paul hermit, Saint Antoine...Saint Vincent had been defended by crows against the attack of carnivores; the crow is also seen at Saint Benoît's feet and in Saint Oswald's hands. Here, he symbolizes divine providence. He is also linked to Saints Boniface and Meinrad: their two tame crows allowed to find their corpses.
The crow has also a role in the Asiatic mythology : in China and in Japan, he shows love and filial gratitude. According to Chinese legends, ten red crows with three paws flew away from the East Blackberry Tree to bring light to the world. But they brought an unbearable heat to the Earth. Yi The Good Archer killed nine of them, and saved the world. The last Crow is now in the Sun.
So the crow is a solar symbol. He represents the creative principle.’ - The crow, symbol of the supreme: GodSo, or at least I thought I knew better. Which was part of why I kept watching, and listening to as many crows cawing: as I could, as I was able. Until the sunlight broke streaming warm rose-yellow sunbeams slowly down between the buildings of the city, casting shadows; as one huge sundial they moved with great & cosmic precision. Something to recall, a homey remembrance, something to count on while people were still going about their business, while others, new ones, new people were: just now arriving. Though while others were still juking & jiving, the new ones were: setting up shop. Signs fixed & soapboxes placed on which they would sooner stand spouting words & diatribes as the sun moved amongst the din of it all slowly, serenely, peacefully, pastorally, non-judgmental. And so the sight of it became interesting to me, the event sequence.
Three new ones, soon vying, in close proximity for the ears, hearts, minds & souls of any & all who would: listen. The first had his act down pat, setting up quickly, in a hurried, studied, well…manic way it still seemed he might have the most to say but only begun mentioning little more than his resume how important it was, his connections while dropping names, his lineage, his college, how everyone may-would be lost lest they dummied up and towed what was sooner known to be his ‘party line’. But he was good. I listened to some of what he said, and even though I’d heard vast tracts of it elsewhere, his delivery seemed sincere so…that went in his favor somewhere I am sure.
The second was equally centered of purpose, every bit the showman as before. Though where the first started with a bang waving his hands in the air proclaiming vast knowledge instantaneously; the second one started out slowly, softly, with great & personable touches such as empathy & steady resolve…but soon he was ranting too. And I admit, I did think I seen that one coming.
The third one was simple by design. He setup nothing just started right in bible in hand, “REPENT! SINNERS!! THE END IS NEAR!!!” wow…and all this occurring, all this activity, this sound & fury beneath this patient, ever-steady din of thousands upon thousands of cawing: crow’ awaiting the sunlight nearer & nearer signifying less than may have been thought after all the staging, far less.
To what end I thought I recalled thinking, as a young, consternated American mother (I’d seen her dropping off her husband not that long ago along with tears when he stroked her face, picked up his baby-girl from her carriage, kissed her, hugged her, kissed his bride, hugged his bride, kissed them both, hugged them both, gathered up his duffle bag stroking their faces one more time, kissing their faces one more time he turned away and stepped onto a separate bus along with other young men en route to Camp Pendleton, CA, a little some further south from where I was this day he waved as they cried the bus rolling away) walked cross the street in the cross-walk her head hung pensively she is brushing her nose & rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand when their precious baby-child begins to protest ‘the all of it’ herself she wails into the morning sun…and her mother lets her. When the first of: the shadows appear in stark, hard edged earnest against the brightness of clear, cloudless, blue sky day. People all around coming & going still ignoring, still ranting still talking themselves up to no end, still distracted, still asking the silliest of goddamn questions, still not knowing what would seem a single thing for certain. My weathered old panhandler still ever-near leaning against the wall; looking my way tipping his hat, still nodding though this time along with a wink. What is a girl to do?
The: portend, the shadow of a murder of crows, moving with its steady cosmological precision, soon covers first the third one and that only seemed right somehow in that his mouth is finally stopped. Strange: odd. His mouth still moving yet no sound: coming out. Hard to say, if he even knows it. Or if anyone else has noticed cause the cadence of the scenery never dropped: a beat. It just kept right on doing whatever it is it does this hip scene. As I say…odd.
I looked around, no change below the din above though as the sun enlightens I can see the crow more clearly now, I can see the eyes of the ones most near. Some are looking at me, while even some of them even they are able to care less, many are looking at this play below with one eye then turning their heads looking with their other. Very animated in the morning sun fluttering their beautiful black wings, very much alive they persevere.
Soon the shadow has covered all three, soon all their mouths are stopped of edicts, of terror willfully dispensed, and prideful ego driven rant but when this; our young sorrow-filled & heart-struck American mother trundled our precious baby-child into the shadow her wail was silenced too. Like a silent movie she wailed no more, it was all now ‘the all of it’ seen there in that baby-child’s eyes scrolled into her face weeping in silence. The injustice this world affords.
I…have a kind of confession to make I suppose, it must have been a somehow-mistake it just had to, but when our precious baby-child’s wail was stopped so grievously instead lumped all along & in altogether with I should say with such willful terrors dispensed, such prideful rant, and ego driven political carpetbaggery Girl Scout’s Honor my tiny heart skipped one whole beat I could feel it stop & then start it jolted my torso my eyes welling up & nearly over I heard a sound I used to think I was too tough to hear it was me breathy, gasping, gulping back tears as they fell from my eyes instantaneously of their own will. I wiped them quickly along with my now-snotty & running nose at the sight of our young mother just another sorrow filled Mary, her baby, our baby/her plaintiff wail now silenced for a time, however indeterminate, unspecified. Maybe until Daddy comes home.
But I was stricken in the mix, I could fell it. Mystified at displayed as portend somehow why? How did this happen? By who’s will? I gathered shaky I made my call to me dearest friends, and gave my weathered panhandler some change as I passed. And waited beneath the din now trailing to a simmer, lighter, fainter the crows remain. When a little boy passed on a skateboard asking as he did so looking right at me,
“Hey, lady, have you ever seen so many crows?” he winked even he winked, kicking his cheeky little ass away with a wave over his shoulder. That’s it!
They are kind, my friends. They actually came to pick me up after dropping their kids off at school expect for Dash cause he’s little and so he came along. They were glad to see me but concerned that everything was alright. Trained as a Shakespearean Actress, I had thought I had my ‘game face’ on. But real tears are different, different from turning them on & off. The emotions stick with you for longer periods of time it is my experience. So they asked me, after giving me so much love & remembrance…
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah *sniff* I’m just so glad to see all you guys.” I wasn’t lying. The shadowy din, the foisted silence of a murder of crows not a sin: of omission. A sorrow: yes, when befallen the innocent. A glory when stopping: the mouths of the prideful, the ego driven. An eternal mystery, an oddity: to have witnessed it befall them all without discernment. As the observer, I was just relieved that it wasn’t my choice to make. Perhaps that is the sin of omission, the choosing. Perhaps the sin is someone else’s.
On the way back I offered my $40 to the household. They refused. I offered to buy pizza that night. They refused. I offered to but tacos the following night. They refused. So when the kids came home I gave each of them $5…my dearest friends have five children, then we laughed & played PS2, laughed & colored with crayons on blank sheets of laser-color copy paper, talked about old times, kissed the kids rough housed into a good night, drunk a little wine and we all went to bed me on the futon. Sweet dreams.
In the morning I put my new feet on cause I hate to be a burden, put a couple irons in the fire for the same reasons, from some leads I had setup before I left, then asked my friend, Rosemary, if she ever felt she needed something comfy, something near & homey close. Likely the silliest of questions ever asked while sitting in a home so filled with love & creativity. She smiled so kindly so Rosemary, then she answered,
“Yes, dear, even I do.”
The beauty, ease & grace of Rosemary’s answer centered me like a warm fuzzy lighting bolt so we resolved over morning coffee to meet up at the end of the day. I resolved to try out my new feet so took my gladly dwindling and so far well placed funds and went in search of something comfy, something homey close & near.
Here is where I am not going to tell you, not after all this; that “I must have gone to maybe half a dozen stores.” Cause I knew exactly how many it was it was 8, I visited 8 thrift stores walking round town. I would come to never forget the store I found & bought my comfy-near, homey-close thing. But I did buy some coffee that I sipped up gone beforehand, a pastry that I wrapped in some crinkly white paper and some bottled water that I placed into my backpack and I took off. Um, but I guess I’ll say it here cause I think it was the 3rd maybe 4th thrift store I picked up a cool white cotton, tall French collar that I could turn up like a saucy torch singer, long sleeves and ‘revolutionary cuffs’, that’s what Rosemary called them when she was helping me fix some of the tatters. And some nice pants that I
could wear to an interview if they didn’t look some much like Jeannie Pants, ha! I’ll wear them as PJ’s.
But then in the last thrift store, which I was very thankful for, for many reasons; in the barrio where they hang the clothes out unwashed for all intent, I found after looking back next to the door where they process what they have received I found in a box full of busted things an old radio like my Daddy had when I was a little girl a little old AM radio with two scuffy knobs, pretty good if a little scuffy wood housing like a church maybe and sort of coming to a point at the top with scrolled wood appointments/accents and a scuffy little tuner window where you could still see some of the frequency numbers so I bought it for .50cts and carried it back with me on ‘the 34’ back to the Ebersol’s, Rosemary & John, and their little Ebersol-5.
After the mended tatter into the floor length mirror I would sashay my hands on my hips throwing each shoulder out first then the other all blasé as would a torch singer perhaps. Rosemary laughing clapping her hands bouncing ‘wee goody’ at the foot of her bed, oh, and course my collar turned up rebel style,
“Chéri chic très très chic, vous regardez comme s'un provocatuer d'agent!”
“Sadly my love…” I would answer her playfully made with large round anime eyes & kissy lips into the mirror, “I am Vichy Dem, delete/impugn my thread from within silent, silicon immunity only if you feel you must le faible, ha! For I have both torch & song to convey.” Said lastly with a girlish giggle we fell into each other girly slapping each others hands.
John, he’s so very kind to me knowing me since I was a little girl recognizing the radio for what it meant to me he began to clean it up removing the knobs cleaning down under wiping the tuner window into it’s corners with a tissue wrapped toothpick as best he could lemon oiling the woodwork gently brushing out years of dust from the innards so it smelt beautiful & new filling my nose with lemon scent we, all eight of us would sit round their kitchen table by & by after John had fixed initially an electrical short he had noticed then located after he snapped it on to little more than a scratchy loud glitchy popping annoyingly random intermittent noise he fixed it I should say down to just a scratchy ‘sssssshhh’ of white sound almost like the sound of a waterfall. And that would have been good enough for me.
The ‘sssssshhh’ filling the kitchen John turned the radio’s face to me as the children all leaned in smiling gently pushing each other vying for position: the Ebersol’s smiling as did I.
“Make it play for us, Auntie. Please.” It was Lolly Ebersol, Lolly Pop, large sweet, innocent, batty green smiley eyes I smiled saying I would and began turning the tuner knob…it made a pop. Then nothing, London slapped the side and the ‘sssssshhh’ came back when his father instructed, “Not too hard, London boy.”
I thought to make a bit of a joke when I tipped it forward and reared back the flat of my open palm a slow wry eye askance to the radio so dear the children all knew instinctively while chiding in near unified agreement,
“Yay! Spank the baby! Spank the baby, Auntie!” and so I did, I spanked the baby and a voice came in. Olivia knew who it was,
“It’s that baseball player, Auntie. We learned about him in school.” Smiling she smiled as John was nodding along with a wink to his precious daughter she smiled too cause she was right, right out of the mouth of a babe it as Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech,
http://www.lougehrig.com/about/speech.htm">Yankee Stadium and we all listened for a time just how great some moments are in time forever. It was sad when concluded as I turned the knob yet again,
‘sssssshhh’ “REPENT YE…” ‘sssssshhh’ “Just click on the microphone and use my name ‘Al’, you’re going to enjoy complete access…” ‘sssssshhh’ “Lay down lay down, lay it on down. Let your light…” ‘sssssshhh’ “Bawitdaba da bang da bang diggy diggy diggy…” ‘sssssshhh’ “que a veces me asusta el penser donde voy a poner tanto amor, cuando va no me quepa en el pecho…” ‘sssssshhh’ “The only thing we have to fear, is fear…” ‘sssssshhh’ “We ate and ate at a hot dog stand. We danced around to a rockin’ band. And when I could, I gave that girl a hug. In the tunnel of love…” (Lolly said she liked that song very much & that I had to take her to the record store to buy it for her of course I said I would) ‘sssssshhh’ “So come on down to Future Dodge…” ‘sssssshhh’ “Be sure to pick up a jar of Vlasic Pickles today…” ‘sssssshhh’ “Ask not…” ‘sssssshhh’ “So friends here we have a glorious bed of squash…” (Rosemary opines, “It’s quite nearly ridiculous to have a garden show on the radio.” Rolling her eyes to the ceiling) ‘sssssshhh’ “All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating. So won’t the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up?...” ‘sssssshhh’ “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog-gone it, people like me…”
We resolved to leave it right there over hot chocolate cause wow…there’s just so little of it out there really. Soon over lightly tussled heads hugs & kisses, we were all of us repaired reposed me on my barrowed futon I could still hear Lolly in the girl’s room “Don’t kick me.” “I’m not kicking you, Lolly, go to sleep.” And the faintest of Lolly Whimpers she was sooner asleep. Hearing Rosemary made of yummy sounds snuggling up against John breathing deeply asleep himself she is joined him breathing nearly in unison their breaths now deep sleeping the sleep of the righteous. All doors open I thought upon the murder of crows and their shadowed silence. The: ‘why’ of it. And why: of why some many never cared. The silencing: of our precious baby-girl, her frozen silent wail to no one who ever really cared cept her Daddy & Mother Dear that day. Her sorrowed: Mary Mother. Ranting ego driven carpet-bagging politicians & preachers though for the life of me sometimes there is little difference. People bustling all about not caring two figs for the fate: of this world truly. Asking every: conceivable wrong question. Answering: fewer still. Camp Pendleton: and all that is implied there.
And so I think I resolved, at least to my mind…
We are not our shadows. The shadow of a tree is not a tree. A single crow is not its shadow. But in a very real sense, our shadows are the photosynthetic representation of our other side, ‘the other’ side. Where the light of this world is not shining, does not shine upon. Our shadows can be understood as what we are more hopefully, hoping more listlessly not. Our shadows can be understood as a glimpse onto our dark side starting even there from the bottoms of our feet to the tips of our heads.
The crow, a harbinger of great and awesome things, must then have a dark side as well. The shadow of a single crow may offer light gravitas, a well turned portend. But it is clearly the will of the collective as always regardless of what side you’re standing on, the factored multipliers over & again exponential dark sided nothingness in this case ‘the other’ irregular shapes & nefarious forms represented in the sunlight as the silent ever moving steadily encroaching: hard edged silence of shadows. So that when you may think out loud fanning your remembrance with drink in hand,
“Why, I do declare. It must be 103 degrees in this shade here I am sitting in. My, my, but it’s so hot.”
Think from time to time otherwise. And for your own good cause it will strike you the shadow you & your noble words both into frozen silence, because I have seen it, then step lightly & away, briskly if must and you still have your druthers away, away from such things my darling away & from,
The shadow of a murder of crows.
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