Black Duck

Yesterday I saw a bird die. A small, black duck--to be specific. I was walking across a parking lot near my house and I heard a "thunk" and then something landed on the ground. My first thought was that it was a shoe. I know, I know--my intelligence and perception is just awe-inspiring. At any rate, as I got closer, I realized what it was. It had flown right into a lamppost in the middle of the parking lot. And I was stunned. I stood there, three feet from it and I could not move. It's hard to define how I felt. For a few moments it writhed. It's long, slender neck bent back and flailed in a way that looked both unnatural and like it was surrendering to a pain that was excruciating and so unexpected. After it's head fell limp, it lifted its right wing, carefully, and extended it only slightly. The sound of it hitting the post had been so loud--it was so clear that impact had been strong. I thought of a poem I read recently in my writing poetry class. The speaker of the poem is holding a bird in her hand that has just died, it's still warm. And the speaker carefully lifts each wing and describes the bird. Then a car comes toward the speaker and she ashamedly puts the bird down--embarrassed to be caught holding it. I could not fathom holding that black duck in my hand. I was scared of it. Frightened that it would lash out at me in a final act of desperation. Frightened by the torturous pain I had witnessed it going through.

I don't know why--but the image of that writhing bird is sitting in my mind, perched and waiting to expand its wings over my thoughts. I don't like to think about it. I've been avoiding walking past it. Someone ran over its body. I can't help but think that that's what all roadkill is--some animal that was once alive, but hit something, hard, and died. Either instantly, or perhaps drawn out, like this small, dark duck. Somehow it seems worse if it was a bird. But I am reminded of many other animals in my life that have died. My next door neighbor's cat that crawled under out mustard-beige 1977 Toyota Corolla to die. My hamster, Lucy, who moved so slowly one morning when I left for school and then was completely still when I returned. Misty, Oliver, George--all floppy-eared rabbits we had while growing up.

I guess this seems pretty morbid. But I felt like I needed to put it down somewhere. Like this black duck needed to be recorded. I told my roommate, Jenelise, about it and she said with eyes a little wide and a faint smile, "you saw death!" I've seen dead things before, but this was different. It was a decline into it. And it took us both by surprise, me and the bird.

While the duck was struggling through its fading moments, I held my cell phone in my hand, and looked around the dark parking lot with my mouth open. My first thought was that I should call some animal help place--get some medical professional out there to cure and heal it. I felt my mouth gaping and flapping like a fish and I wanted someone to notice, to pay attention, to come and be shocked with me. But no one seemed to see. So I stood there in the night and cold with my backpack sagging unremarkably on my back and my arms slack at my sides and I felt a kind of helpless sadness that made everything else seem grossly inconsequential.

Now that bird is flattened against the pavement and its grace seems ironed out and lost. I wish I could've seen it in flight.

Ordinary

Today I was looking at some amateur photography online. The majority of it was of ordinary people doing ordinary things. The pictures were so vibrant and natural and true-to-life that the ordinary people were absolutely beautiful. It seems like that's where the most beautiful things are: in people, regular, run-of-the-mill people. There is so much to be seen and appreciated in the seemingly mundane. The the amazing thing is that there's an inherent goodness in human beings. I think that people are basically good and basically mean well, but we get tripped up by ourselves and we forget things we've always known. I look at the celebrities in the media, who we use as our standard for beauty. But I can't think of a single one that is as beautiful as my mother. When I think of what I want to draw or photograph--those images that are impressed the most on my mind and heart and that I want to remember--usually it's the people I love or people I observe manifesting that inherent goodness.

I guess this goes along with my belief that there's no such thing as a boring person. People can be boring teachers, or speak in a boring way or have boring habits--but people themselves are fascinating.

Natural Beauty

I’ve noticed something yet again (I’ve been noticing it every semester of every year I’ve been at college) that not necessarily baffles me, but definitely bamboozles me. Every morning I get to class usually right on time, or two minutes late. It just happens that way. And every morning the same girls are there, cool, collected, on time, and miraculously looking fabulous. You know—perfect make-up, good hair (like you can tell they styled it—STYLED it. Curls, perfect straightness, some funky twisted braid thing, that though it may be funky, you know it took some time), cute clothes, and that aura that says: “I got here five minutes ago and I look cool and collected because I am cool and collected. I ate a complete and balanced breakfast, walked leisurely to school, and here I am.” These people amaze me. Because clearly they got up in enough time to do everything necessary to give off such an aura. I’ve tried to convince myself that they just naturally look that way, so there’s nothing I can do about it, being a mere normal girl who God did not endow with natural, easy goregeousness—but the thing is, I’m pretty sure they didn’t just roll out of bed looking like a flock of sophisticated secretaries for corporate America. I have no excuse. I don’t get up early enough to do that. I don’t make enough effort to join their ranks (and believe me—such ranks have to be joined—I’ll explain that later). This morning, for example, I bumbled out of bed, into the shower and had five minutes to do my hair, make-up and get dressed. I think I went over and took eight or nine instead. And that, unfortunately, is the norm. I keep hoping that a figure like Audrey Hepburn, hair like a shampoo model and skin like a baby’s toosh will just come to me one day. Like I’ll wake up some glorious Tuesday and voila, I’ll have been transformed into a model—all of which will be totally natural and take no preparation whatsoever. I’ll been waiting for that day for a long time. I don’t think it’s coming—but I’ll hold out till next week just in case.

I would like my style to be classy, but I know that in reality it’s more like… scroungy, but clean. I arrive to class heaving, eyeliner smudging and sometimes a little perspiration on my forehead from the thigh-searing haul of a walk up the ubiquitous stairs that are some sort of sick requirement to get to campus.

Now to talk about joining the ranks. I want to focus on the fact that there are ranks, more than the fact that you have to join them. Being one of those cool, collected girls puts you in a yacht with the other cool, collected girls. They talk to each other, laugh well-groomed laughs and give us scroungy girls a look that says clearly: “late again? And your hair looks pathetic.” The thing is, I don’t resent the fact that I’m not a part of this league of prepared beauty and organization—but I do want to join. So, every morning when I get to class and drop my bag by my desk and collapse, heaving, into my seat—shirt not matching shoes and mascara speckling one of my eyelids, I mentally tell myself what I want to tell them: someday! Just you wait! One of these days I too will wake up early enough to put my hair in a chignon, eat a complete and balanced breakfast, walk leisurely to class and look REALLY good.

Fruity Sonnet

"If I had lemon colored hair,"
Louise said shyly,
"And a body like a pear--
Would you esteem me highly?"

"Or laugh at a girl shaped like a cherry?"
She put her hands to her waist,
Opened her mouth like a berry,
And then began to pace.

"It would be better were I a plum,"
Louise next concluded,
"And spoke with purple thumbs.
A language unrefuted!"

Louise eyed her own reflection.
"Such a fruit basket complexion."

I Should Donate Plasma

Today I thought about how nice it would be to not be broke. You know, have a real job and not be poverty-stricken. Not that I don't see the importance of financial sinkholes like tuition and rent--because I do.