Birdhouse.

I remember when I didn’t know nothing. I remember being a pea in a pod. I remember birth like it was yesterday. All things are as a dream. The dead dream merrily merrily merrily merrily by the sea. We are only ghosts to them and they are our hearts. Today is fleeting, and that was just so. Lookout for blooming supermarket grade floral displays masking the real beauty of an untended garden and this shiny undulating worm mind. 

Who are you, my love, that I aspire to? As a breath of smoke aspires to clarity. Who are you, my love, that I aspire to?  As a breath of smoke is aspirant to clarity. 

When you are ready to be a bird, I shall be. A bird to my own satisfaction.

She told me you are like a bird. You are like a bird and this is not the way. The way is to be like a hawk, she told me, but you are not like the hawk. You are like the bird. 

I was too stupid to understand this. I said, a hawk is a bird. I don't understand a thing. But now I am a bird, and there is no way to hide from that truth. So I run to hide in my nest. So I sing love songs from my nest. So my love song reaches to high heaven and to high hell. I am high in my nest in love with a song I forget now but I am a bird. I am the only bird there ever was. ____________

P.S.

The truth is you live in a world of birds,

The truth is there is no way you can know it.

If I knew there were birds, I would be just an ordinary bird.

But I know even less than that, and this is as a bird myself! 

What is most audacious is to say, What of birdness? Who manages the Birdness foundation at the end of time? Is there a lark there whistling its naive homily to the patient bluejay whose song we will never hear? Is this the cardinality of birdhood?

I am no longer a bird.
I will be another bird—the lark, the woodpecker, the swallow.
The grackle, the raven, the wren. 

𝗗 𝗾 𝗝 𝗃 𝗅 𝗆 𝗇,..<:/
\
𝗆𝗅𝗉 𝗇𝗉𝗇 𝗅𝗃𝗅𝗇/

To make a new bird you want to make a new person. 
We make new habits and new values, but we are not the same person. 
To deliver the 10,000 pilgrims across the shore is to recognize as complete and manifest each unique configuration of consciousness which comes into being from mind. Here then as a continuous state of interaction and engagement, receptivity and expression. 

This is where birds learn flight. I know, my friend, how it feels to be like that. I see it in others. From this point of view flying above myself I see the venerable master pidgeons on the other shore, pitching their latest movie idea with enthusiasm and detachment. 

"I'm ready," said the raven. "You're about to be a bird."

"Birds are born," said the crow.

“So are ravens.” Said the grackle, “So are crows. So are grackles. And so are thoughts born and so do they die.”

I've read these lines hundreds of times in the hope of learning the first step in the process of becoming a bird. Then, moment of realization.

Yet here I remain. Neither bird nor unbird. What of my feathers? Where beak? Neither hollow bone nor stone, nor either’s penitant unprotestation. Oh the echo like the noonday sun. I am become sky. This is what bird chanted in her dreams. I changed into the wind to forget all doubt.

************ *** 

The first part of the song was sung to Rylai, the second part to her lover, Sven. After the two had been in a relationship for a while now, Sven suggested they have a little private concert together.

"What is it?" asked the princess.

Sven, the most sensitive of all the trolls, always knew exactly what to say to make her come out of herself.

These are the roots of new life. Each moment living is so. If my body has an entwined fate, is this really something I must be forced to need to know? I doubt this. As all fates are entwined, individual existence being an enforced mental category. Along with all other categories. It was always so, we extend to wherever we meet, and if we touch, I thrill, but god only knows for how long. I never knew this world existed. Yet I rode my motorcycle, I breathed the air, I declared love, I spoke into visions of pale night and endless loving toil. 

I can feel my own body, my own soul, breathing, moving.

There are many worlds, some worlds are brighter, some worlds are sadder. 

Even this indomitable wormbeing that I am is an indication of something still more mysterious. The mystery of why the dogsbody persists is a humdinger, but the primary concern has always been, how is this real?

The self is the only thing thats real. But yet, it’s a bird.

I throw a stone at it and it flies away. 

The world was just a shell. I took the shell.

I held it up to my ears and inside were more bird noises. None of it made any sense. 

My last vision is of a dark grey landscape with a few trees. It could have been a forest, that's where I was before I met the dogwoman.

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