Archive for August, 2011

Just passing through

Posted in ramble on August 28, 2011 by isidor

6 year long relationship breaks, coffee machine breaks, dish-washing machine breaks, trains I am riding break, my health (momentarily) breaks, 4 year long relationship breaks, hospitality breaks, kitchen air shaft breaks, glasses break, computer breaks (mine), battery charger breaks (also mine, is eaten by cat actually, not mine), employer-employee (the latter being me) relationship breaks, employer-supplier relationship breaks, apple juice carton breaks (in my backpack).

And well, do I really care? It seems all I want is to get back to my book.

Perhaps my heart is turning to stone; even that, though,  appears to me as not much of an happening.

Pro Columba Livia (In favour of the rock pigeon)

Posted in ramble on August 12, 2011 by isidor

When we do speak of pigeons, it is mostly as they come to interact with our city lives. Their are accused of being dirty and stupid, not to mention worthless parasites.
Therefore, they are generally disregarded, except for the annoyance they bring. Yet, it only takes a little to figure out that our bond with them goes beyond that; pigeon population control in cities is often effected through more efficent cleaning: in other words, their presence is relative to our own uncleanliness. It is but a simple hypocrisy: the contrast of our personal hygiene with the waste we produce (which is what pigeons feed upon). Pigeons have adapted to live in a hostile environment, living off our trash; they are not vermin*, but more simply a mirror of our own habits.  We are their habitat, and by looking at them you could tell something about us; feeling disgust at a city pigeon would be like shitting on the patio and then complaining it is dirty. As it is, we are refusing the world we are creating by looking the other way.

What is more, pigeon to human illnesses are extremely rare; the only one existing case of pigeon to human avian influenza became an excuse for pharmaceutical companies to sell even more expensive vaccines that, to date, remain unused.

Lastly, they are quite intelligent animals, having been used throughout history as message carriers, even during wartime; when trained to use mirrors, they are able to pass the mirror test, meaning they are one of the few animals with self-recognition capabilities.

* Pigeons do not fulfill the criteria for actual parasites, a parasite being a damaging entity to its host. The actual expenses (on our part) come up when a removal attempt is made, but that, I believe, has nothing to do with parasitism.

Riots

Posted in Uncategorized on August 9, 2011 by isidor

I am disgusted at what is going on in England; I’d rather not jump to quick conclusions, but what seemed to be a protest is now turning out to be nothing more than rampant madness.

http://birminghamriots2011.tumblr.com/post/8657681511/14-yearr-old-says-shes-looted-alcohol-stashed-it

14 yearr old says she’s looted alcohol, stashed it. When asked ‘why’ she says, ‘recession. We’ve no money and nothing to do.’

Yes. These riots are a result of a terrible government making cuts all over the place and generally poor socio-economic conditions IMO. The man shot in London was simply the straw that broke the camels back.

Recession and cuts have nothing to do with stealing alcohol, breaking into electronics or Armani shops, assaulting police. If you think you’re somehow justified to do any of the above, you’re as rotten as the system you accuse.

Night wind, my beloved

Posted in log on August 8, 2011 by isidor

It is about 3 am when I fall (or am thrown) into the sea.  I hadn’t drunk much; I guess it simply was one of those things I had wanted to happen. As I get out, it is a bit cold, and my long sleeves and trousers drenched in salty water make me look like a pooch who’s just jumped into a pool. Not that the other party goers on the beach seem to care much, yet it’s not exactly comfortable.

As I (half naked) make my way to the car to get my dry clothes, I notice that there’s already two naked people in it, presumably engaging in sex. After wandering a bit around, I decide not to care, and while looking the other way I go back and reach for my bag, excusing myself. To get changed, there’s another friend’s car, and that’s where I go; surprise surprise, this one too has people in it having some fun, and not the monopoly kind of fun.

This leaves me with no choice but to get changed in the middle of a gas pump, pondering on how I am seemingly stuck as being “the one that interrupts”.

The dry, informal clothes I now wear feel natural and comfortable. I walk next to the cliff, leading to the the steep fall down to the sea, shielded by a net. As a pleasant night wind runs through my hair, I observe the pier at the horizon; a huge mechanical compound, its arms sticking out into the sea, as if dragging its bottom in search of something to prey upon . All I can think of is our greedyness; yet the image of this rough contraption and the long line of lampposts defining the coast at regular intervals seem to blend perfectly with the gentle profile of the rocks running up to the mountains.
Down at the beach, loud repetitive music provides an appropriate accompaniment to this composition; a group of people sluggishly dancing, or perhaps droning to it, the most fitting image I can equate to this being that of flies swarming mindlessly around a light, drugged and mystified by it, yet, perhaps, in ecstasy.

No, I do not feel that I am a better being than they are. Just, sometimes, I am glad I am a perpetual outsider. Sitting on the railing I enjoy the night air, alone.

Brief Reminescences

Posted in log on August 4, 2011 by isidor

Not even a year ago.

Snow in the field. All is silent. Cuddled up in my arms is an old hen, her smooth black feathers giving off emerald reflections; another day has gone past, and it is now time for her to return to the night shelter, where she can rest safe from the occasional predator. Just like every other day.

As I walk, I reach the small and closed gate that leads to the gravel, which I forgot to open beforehand; two hands are required to hold the hen, and she hasn’t been trained to open the gate for me using her beak or anything fancy like that.

I look into her eye, she looks into mine. I try to read into her animal soul, and find no sign of open rebellion, no clear indication of the bother I am causing by carrying her around.

And so, for a second I trust her and let her down, out in the open. No sooner than I can reach for the gate, well..

Clucking madly, she runs off.

And after a moment of pondering “ah! I’ve been had” (by a chicken) and of how my trust in a member of the species Gallus gallus domesticus has been tragically mislaid; after this second of reflection and momentary sadness, I run after her, leaving but footprints in the soft snow.

Yet, on my final day there, as I say goodbye to that very field so full of snow, the setting sun streaking the purest white with that conforting hue of amber.. as I look at the small chicken range built for one; even at the pig whose shit I had to shovel away every day; at the horses who made me run all over the place with tons of hay; at the cows, who ate said hay while I was trying to hide it; heck, even at Max the cat who stabbed my neck once and clawed me over and over and gave me nightmares.. as I look, I cannot help a tear flowing down my cheek.