LJ Idol, Week 24: Auguries
The birds are back, which means Patty is coming home soon.
In the realm of absurd auguries, despite the habits of the ancient Romans, this is about as silly as it gets. Even for me, who does believe in and live to all sorts of signs and symbols, it really doesn't make much sense.
For one thing, there's no particular past or pattern to base this on; all of Patty's other digs have been in the summer when the birds are there before she leaves, while she's gone and after she comes back. For another, our bird issue is particularly crazy; this isn't about flight patterns.
In fact, despite my affinity for birds, they're sort of our enemy. There's an owl that lives in the tree outside our window and a woodpecker that pecks on the side of our building, and a hell of a lot other other birds that make weird noises -- loud and angry -- that wake us at all hours.
And sometimes the birds stare.
I wake up before Patty most days and sort of murmur at her about stuff in the world, and one day I mentioned that there were starlings on the fire escape looking in at us.
"Nooooo," she said. "Creepy."
So I sat up and scared them and then wrapped myself around her and told her I was protecting her from the birds.
"Good," she said in a little puff of breath. "Thank you, my darling."
Over time, the bird narrative has become weirder; once, we saw sparrows on the street eating the remains of fried chicken. It bothered me, even though people are mammals who eat other mammals and that doesn't make us cannibals, so surely it can be the same for the avian kingdom.
"Cannibal birds," I noted.
"Yuck," Patty said.
And meanwhile, birds kept coming to stare in our window.
"Pervert birds," she said.
One day, she called me into our office. "Honey?" she said, sounding a bit disturbed.
"Yeah?" I hollered as I got up from my desk in our bedroom.
"There's a woodpecker!"
And sure enough, there was one of our many bird enemies, the woodpecker, pecking on our window.
"I think the birds like you," I said, and from there, I made up stories.
You see, the birds in our neighborhood are fundamentalist cultist birds, who believe Patty is their queen, and they come to visit her and watch her and wait to see when she will take up the mantle of fundamentalist cultist bird leadership. And it's my job to protect her.
When the birds wake us up at weird hours, I tell her about their plans, and how I will protect her.
We decided that in Oman on her dig, she'd be safe. The birds there aren't cultist fundamentalist birds, just normal birds, and it would be too hard for our crazy Central Park exile birds to get them a message.
So Patty went to Oman, safe from birds, and winter came here in NYC and the birds that were watching her went away.
But it's spring now, and the birds are back. I watch them hop on the fire escape, still fat from winter, and I think they're cool because I like birds (they're weird), even though I know they are actually secretly and insidiously waiting for the return of their bird queen.
But who can blame them really? So am I.
In the realm of absurd auguries, despite the habits of the ancient Romans, this is about as silly as it gets. Even for me, who does believe in and live to all sorts of signs and symbols, it really doesn't make much sense.
For one thing, there's no particular past or pattern to base this on; all of Patty's other digs have been in the summer when the birds are there before she leaves, while she's gone and after she comes back. For another, our bird issue is particularly crazy; this isn't about flight patterns.
In fact, despite my affinity for birds, they're sort of our enemy. There's an owl that lives in the tree outside our window and a woodpecker that pecks on the side of our building, and a hell of a lot other other birds that make weird noises -- loud and angry -- that wake us at all hours.
And sometimes the birds stare.
I wake up before Patty most days and sort of murmur at her about stuff in the world, and one day I mentioned that there were starlings on the fire escape looking in at us.
"Nooooo," she said. "Creepy."
So I sat up and scared them and then wrapped myself around her and told her I was protecting her from the birds.
"Good," she said in a little puff of breath. "Thank you, my darling."
Over time, the bird narrative has become weirder; once, we saw sparrows on the street eating the remains of fried chicken. It bothered me, even though people are mammals who eat other mammals and that doesn't make us cannibals, so surely it can be the same for the avian kingdom.
"Cannibal birds," I noted.
"Yuck," Patty said.
And meanwhile, birds kept coming to stare in our window.
"Pervert birds," she said.
One day, she called me into our office. "Honey?" she said, sounding a bit disturbed.
"Yeah?" I hollered as I got up from my desk in our bedroom.
"There's a woodpecker!"
And sure enough, there was one of our many bird enemies, the woodpecker, pecking on our window.
"I think the birds like you," I said, and from there, I made up stories.
You see, the birds in our neighborhood are fundamentalist cultist birds, who believe Patty is their queen, and they come to visit her and watch her and wait to see when she will take up the mantle of fundamentalist cultist bird leadership. And it's my job to protect her.
When the birds wake us up at weird hours, I tell her about their plans, and how I will protect her.
We decided that in Oman on her dig, she'd be safe. The birds there aren't cultist fundamentalist birds, just normal birds, and it would be too hard for our crazy Central Park exile birds to get them a message.
So Patty went to Oman, safe from birds, and winter came here in NYC and the birds that were watching her went away.
But it's spring now, and the birds are back. I watch them hop on the fire escape, still fat from winter, and I think they're cool because I like birds (they're weird), even though I know they are actually secretly and insidiously waiting for the return of their bird queen.
But who can blame them really? So am I.