Tuesday, May 23, 2017

First Thing #2

I write about birds, I guess, because of the proximity of the feeder to my bed.
Yesterday there was a grosbeak, last night a raccoon, and this morning a lady cardinal.
The birds remind you of her, that's been established, and to be honest, done to death.
Write about something else, like how your body changes as you age.
What will occupy you when love is no longer a realistic pursuit?
This will, I guess, memories of love and birds.
What kind of a man watches birds?, she joked.
She doesn't ask those questions anymore.

A phone call arrived last night. I could hear her exhaustion. She said she's started eating again, her kids are with her ex, and she has to stay until Thursday to appease the authorities if she is to get them back.  She's like me in the sense that she misses someone who no longer wants her, and that has rendered her low. She said she had a breakdown. What do I call what I've been having? Let's call it a dynamic process - disintegration and a loose re-consolidation into a changed thing.

An intrusive thought about a swollen tongued hummingbird starving to death outside the screen prompted me to clean the feeder with hot water and refill it. McCullers said it, start with a small love, something manageable - a tree, a rock, a cloud.

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