On the Wing
Hrm, long time no see, yet again. I think its been about 3 months since I even logged into LJ at all. I hope you all, my long-neglected friends, are well. It seems to me like the best hope for me to continue this journal is just to use it as a depository for snippets of writing and odd things I come across on the web instead of for describing my real life.
In that spirit, I was rummaging through my writing folder the other day and found this. I wrote it in a stream of consciousness shortly after the occurrence of the event it concerns. I wouldn't call it visionary, but its still touching and personal.
Promise I'll post some contact info soon and make an effort to catch up with you guys! I have a nice cast of friends here in the bay area, but I have yet to replicate the sense of kinship I felt with all of you at Scripps and UCI.
...
At about 11:40 PST, September 27th, my pet cockatiel of over 13 years died. He had been sick for some months, at first with a benign tumor on his spine, and then with a mysterious illness that left him mute and with diminished control over his legs. Not even x-rays, surgery, twice-daily antibiotic injections and a visit to a specialist made him much better. So in a way I had already done most of my mourning.
But nothing quite prepared me for exactly how he died. I had just gotten out of the shower, and I sat down at my computer to check a few forums before bed. For some reason, my eyes were drawn to his perch (he spends most of his time on an uncovered perch in my living room), and I noticed he was breathing raggedly and listing to his left. I went over to him and picked him up, cradling him gently between two hands as I had become accustomed to doing to soothe him when he was feeling the worst.
At that moment, he went into what looked like a mild seizure; he raised his wings, (like he would do whenever he was agitated or eager to go somewhere,) his back arched, and he tilted his head back to look at me. He blinked just once, clenching his beak silently.
I would like to say that I felt the life slipping away from him, but that wasn’t what it felt like. He was there, and then he was not there. And suddenly he felt lighter. I thought back to when he was healthier, and he would fly out of my hands sometimes, whether from fear, excitement, or just a wish to get to wherever I was carrying him just that much faster.
It was a process I could feel happening moments away from its occurrence. First the muscles in his tiny body would ready themselves, and I would feel tiny claws tightening just slightly on my flesh. Then his wings would raise, almost imperceptibly. And though he was still grounded, he would feel lighter, as if part of him had already left, and his body merely had to catch up with it. And then he would either leave me entirely, or he would settle, and become heavier again.
This time, it was only slightly different. The sum of what he was to me; treasured friend, stubborn loudmouth, beloved pet, obnoxious brat, loveable clown, flew away. And what remained was just a sum of flesh and feathers; the body that could no longer keep up with everything it had once held. Something that was no longer anything more than the sum of its parts.
I cried over him for almost an hour, afraid to let his body cool. But it somehow comforted me that some of my tears landed on him, smoothing feathers that had seen better days. But what comforted me most of all was the fact that he had waited for me. He seemed like he had known before that he wasn’t much longer for this world, and that all he needed was someone to escort him. And he went gently into that good night.
Ingmar Birdman:
May 5th, 1994 - September 27th, 2007
"Hope is the thing with feathers."
In that spirit, I was rummaging through my writing folder the other day and found this. I wrote it in a stream of consciousness shortly after the occurrence of the event it concerns. I wouldn't call it visionary, but its still touching and personal.
Promise I'll post some contact info soon and make an effort to catch up with you guys! I have a nice cast of friends here in the bay area, but I have yet to replicate the sense of kinship I felt with all of you at Scripps and UCI.
...
At about 11:40 PST, September 27th, my pet cockatiel of over 13 years died. He had been sick for some months, at first with a benign tumor on his spine, and then with a mysterious illness that left him mute and with diminished control over his legs. Not even x-rays, surgery, twice-daily antibiotic injections and a visit to a specialist made him much better. So in a way I had already done most of my mourning.
But nothing quite prepared me for exactly how he died. I had just gotten out of the shower, and I sat down at my computer to check a few forums before bed. For some reason, my eyes were drawn to his perch (he spends most of his time on an uncovered perch in my living room), and I noticed he was breathing raggedly and listing to his left. I went over to him and picked him up, cradling him gently between two hands as I had become accustomed to doing to soothe him when he was feeling the worst.
At that moment, he went into what looked like a mild seizure; he raised his wings, (like he would do whenever he was agitated or eager to go somewhere,) his back arched, and he tilted his head back to look at me. He blinked just once, clenching his beak silently.
I would like to say that I felt the life slipping away from him, but that wasn’t what it felt like. He was there, and then he was not there. And suddenly he felt lighter. I thought back to when he was healthier, and he would fly out of my hands sometimes, whether from fear, excitement, or just a wish to get to wherever I was carrying him just that much faster.
It was a process I could feel happening moments away from its occurrence. First the muscles in his tiny body would ready themselves, and I would feel tiny claws tightening just slightly on my flesh. Then his wings would raise, almost imperceptibly. And though he was still grounded, he would feel lighter, as if part of him had already left, and his body merely had to catch up with it. And then he would either leave me entirely, or he would settle, and become heavier again.
This time, it was only slightly different. The sum of what he was to me; treasured friend, stubborn loudmouth, beloved pet, obnoxious brat, loveable clown, flew away. And what remained was just a sum of flesh and feathers; the body that could no longer keep up with everything it had once held. Something that was no longer anything more than the sum of its parts.
I cried over him for almost an hour, afraid to let his body cool. But it somehow comforted me that some of my tears landed on him, smoothing feathers that had seen better days. But what comforted me most of all was the fact that he had waited for me. He seemed like he had known before that he wasn’t much longer for this world, and that all he needed was someone to escort him. And he went gently into that good night.
Ingmar Birdman:
May 5th, 1994 - September 27th, 2007
"Hope is the thing with feathers."