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The Dead Bird & Me
22 December 2005 11:31 pmI observe; that's about all I do.
I observe pigeons.
I observe pigeons with an increasing sense of self.
Becoming aware of my persona in this world. Me, an artist and a sufferer (from pigeons) born with a penis and accompanying testicles (two in number last time I checked). All this does not matter for anyone but myself (of course it matters for my future love, if and when I meet that one). Who I pretend to be by proclaiming this is somebody who's only here to make me feel better (note the schizofrenia in this sentence), or, to make me feel anything for that matter (somehow, we don't see this as possible anymore).
"Beauty never buys you anything," I tell this pigeon. I achieve beauty, sure, it's one of my life's ambitions (crazed as I am, I should add that this ambition has some stiff competition in the ambition-department - note how I build this sentence in a confusing way: it's who I am). I do have more difficulty attaining a beauty I can be satisfied with (it has nothing to do with my flatulence - otherwise this pigeon wouldn't even be here). Perhaps this is because my inner and my outer self stand in contradiction to one another (or maybe they have just drifted apart like a married couple of twenty years - both of the partners seeking refuge in the arms of a mistress (sadly, my mistresses are metaphorical ones)). I am a coincidental mess of insecurities that somehow build up a mask of security. I am definitely more malicious than this pigeon here. I also happen to stand above every one else (the pigeon calls it megalomania: we know better).
Locking me up is no real solution because I will not learn anything from it. Somewhere underneath that mess of mine, I remain convinced that the only thing pure about me is my love (that's right, my capital L-Love). My surrendering to it and my will to let this take over my entire being is of paramount importance (together with my overcoming my flatulence).
Someday.
Right now, a pigeon is inspecting me while it is carefully approaching me, looking for food. It knows the threat I bear within. That's why it is so cautious.
Closer to me.
Step by step.
I grab the scared bird and bite off its head.
Still convinced that I am Love.
I observe pigeons.
I observe pigeons with an increasing sense of self.
Becoming aware of my persona in this world. Me, an artist and a sufferer (from pigeons) born with a penis and accompanying testicles (two in number last time I checked). All this does not matter for anyone but myself (of course it matters for my future love, if and when I meet that one). Who I pretend to be by proclaiming this is somebody who's only here to make me feel better (note the schizofrenia in this sentence), or, to make me feel anything for that matter (somehow, we don't see this as possible anymore).
"Beauty never buys you anything," I tell this pigeon. I achieve beauty, sure, it's one of my life's ambitions (crazed as I am, I should add that this ambition has some stiff competition in the ambition-department - note how I build this sentence in a confusing way: it's who I am). I do have more difficulty attaining a beauty I can be satisfied with (it has nothing to do with my flatulence - otherwise this pigeon wouldn't even be here). Perhaps this is because my inner and my outer self stand in contradiction to one another (or maybe they have just drifted apart like a married couple of twenty years - both of the partners seeking refuge in the arms of a mistress (sadly, my mistresses are metaphorical ones)). I am a coincidental mess of insecurities that somehow build up a mask of security. I am definitely more malicious than this pigeon here. I also happen to stand above every one else (the pigeon calls it megalomania: we know better).
Locking me up is no real solution because I will not learn anything from it. Somewhere underneath that mess of mine, I remain convinced that the only thing pure about me is my love (that's right, my capital L-Love). My surrendering to it and my will to let this take over my entire being is of paramount importance (together with my overcoming my flatulence).
Someday.
Right now, a pigeon is inspecting me while it is carefully approaching me, looking for food. It knows the threat I bear within. That's why it is so cautious.
Closer to me.
Step by step.
I grab the scared bird and bite off its head.
Still convinced that I am Love.
