“Memory acts as a storage facility for the internal rumor mill.” ~mc~
Storyteller’s note: if you prefer to find your storythreads via the aerial map, click here to be transported to a Bird’s Eye View. (Some of us prefer the Playbill version, for obvious reasons. Bill joke. Quack.)
The Birds
So, heads up: we’re gonna be taking a good long look at some little-known behaviors among common Rock Doves. Pigeons, that is. In the interest of social science and evolutionary theory. Pigeons, as you will see, have long been besting top scientists in the quest for the Creative Moment. For centuries. Western science has only just come up with the term “epigenetics,” while Pigeons have soared beyond its mappings in vast sky-seas through leagues upon leagues of the bottomless symphony of time unfolding this here evolutionary consciousness.
As the shell of a Duck of miraculous origins, I will remind you this one thing, again and again: Don’t underestimate the birds.
The thing about Swans… you know, probably, the thing about Swans. They thought they were ugly until they realized they weren’t Ducks.
Well, the thing about Rock Doves… you may have already guessed. They haven’t been canonized in the holy glory of white Doves. But they sure aren’t Swans, not a one. They aren’t Hawks or Eagles or Ravens or Owls or Mockingbirds or the first Robins of spring. No, they aren’t Rats either. And they sure as shit aren’t Ducks.
Pigeons are, as themselves, without trying to be any other stylish pet or fancy spirit totem animal:
MESSENGERS.
as well as
DEAD RECKONERS.
and of course
EXTREMELY PROLIFIC BREEDERS.
So, we who share the planet with the sprawling lot of ’em, we might want to take note.
The word they’re saying, as we’ll discuss more thoroughly throughout the story, is spelled “coup”.
Integration is the only way to wholeness. Everything else is just another holy war.
“I don’t speak for the birds. I speak with the birds.”
Ipomoea violacea. Dreamcrafter. Moonflower. Imagination station. Very possibly the Messiah.
Sacred Whore of Babylawn, Priestess of Magdalene, Initiate of OCDXI, Co-founder of WISH, & Director in Radical Rapist-Remediation Therapy, PhD, LMSW.
Journal Excerpt #7:
My mother was a casualty of the sex war. I will not be. My mother was a casualty of sexual violence, and she was not the only one. As a living being sharing the blood of my mother and the blood of a rapist, I choose to end this war.
Genetic marvel stepping beyond the given roles of Attacker and Victim, I am mutating the gene pool. At my confessional, the conversation does not end with Wrong and Wronged. This religion is ancient, resurrected, and open for business.
I am an initiate of OCDXI, a Priestess of Magdalene, and a Sacred Whore of Babylawn. The tears of my pilgrims unsalt the Earth of a new era.
I choose it because I can.
This war ends with me.
Good Father. Everyman. Ex-saxophonist. Ex-Catholic. Ex-addict. Closets fulla quilts.
Direct address of mortality: extraordinarily personal, from womb to tomb. From tomb to womb: tbd.
Note to Self: One person’s Apocalypse is another person’s Square One.
Tour-jetés, baby. Whirl that dervish. Arson is in the eye of the beholder. And the Sun beholds every turn.
There is one point: freedom. Actual freedom. Find it.
Noteworthy:
Real freedom is terrifying.
Mythological Villain. The Victim. The untethered headfulla distractionary, delusional thoughts, ready to throw at the closest enemy. Star of nightmares, defender of defensiveness, offense of vengeance, blindness of certainty. Manufacturer of poison. Self-destruction in a suit.
Likes to dress her dog up in colors that complement her own.