blog
The Birds
The year I turned six, my family structure took a few devastating blows. My Bulldog Suzie was put to sleep when an infection in her eyes became untreatable. My grandfather died of cancer at the age of 80 and my parents filed for a divorce. When they separated, my half brother Kyle and I would spend every other weekend with my father. At one point, Kyle decided he didn't want to go anymore. After all, we have different dads.
One Sunday afternoon, my mom came to pick me up as scheduled. Only this time, I was shirtless carrying a VCR down the side of the road. Needless to say, joint custody didn't last much longer.
During the following visit with my father, I was walking back from the park. It was well into the afternoon and the sun was going down. I came across a small, injured bird flailing in the gutter. It's right wing was broken. I bent down, scooped it up into my shirt and continued walking. I imagined nursing the bird back to health. A montage of it's recovery and release played again and again in my mind.
Rounding the corner to the block where my father lived, I began to picture my father's reaction to my new friend. Bringing a filthy, diseased, winged rodent into his home seemed like a death-worthy trespass.
So, I stopped to contemplate this decision. Perhaps I decided to hide the bird in a safe place. The old aluminum fence post on the corner of the front lawn seemed like the perfect refuge.
I peered down the cylinder for a moment and pulled the injured bird from my t-shirt. I took a look around for any witnesses and dropped it in. Later that night, my dad and I were sitting on the porch with some of his friends. My stow-away began chirping frantically from the fence post. After a search for the source of this noise, they pin-pointed my hiding spot.
We spent nearly an hour shining a flash light into the post and trying to remove the bird with a fishing pole. We fished until the chirping finally stopped.
That was the last time I ever saw my father...
I was 15 and well into my drug-addled, alcohol-fueled rebellion phase. I was riding down 395 with my friend Jodi in her gigantic, baby blue station wagon. We stopped at the traffic light on Highland. I spotted a friend of mine in the Taco Time parking lot to my right. I said goodbye to Jodi and exited the car.
No more than a second after I closed the door, A Greyhound bus passed in the next lane. I was caught in the two foot space between a speeding bus running a red light and a big ass station wagon. My life didn't have a chance to flash before my eyes.
That was not the only near-death experience involving that station wagon. The following week Jodi, Adam and I were skipping a class. Upon our return to the campus, a can of gasoline spilled in the back. "Let me see if the fumes have dissipated," Adam said pulling a Bic lighter from his pocket. He flicked the lighter in the direction of the spill, turning the cab of the car into a chamber of hot, loud flames. We all managed to get out safely. That old station wagon however, didn't make it.
Some time later, I was walking. I rounded the corner from Highland on to 395, the same corner where I had nearly been hit. Once again a Greyhound bus drove by me. A bird dive-bombed directly in front of me and straight into the window of the bus. It bounced off of the window and landed at my feet, twitching. I stopped walking and watched. I took a brick from the 3 foot wall to my left. An onlooker stopped. We shared a quick "It's the right thing to do," kind of look and I lifted the brick over my head. With one fast, crushing blow it was dead.
The next day, I dropped out of high school and began recording my first album.
When I went off to college in the winter of 2004, I had another experience with a bird. My dorm room was on the 8th floor of the Cornelius in Seattle. The first night in my room, an old pigeon landed on my window sil and stayed there all night. When I woke up the next morning, the bird was gone. I opened the window and looked down. The pigeon was laying dead on the roof of the first floor.
One Sunday afternoon, my mom came to pick me up as scheduled. Only this time, I was shirtless carrying a VCR down the side of the road. Needless to say, joint custody didn't last much longer.
During the following visit with my father, I was walking back from the park. It was well into the afternoon and the sun was going down. I came across a small, injured bird flailing in the gutter. It's right wing was broken. I bent down, scooped it up into my shirt and continued walking. I imagined nursing the bird back to health. A montage of it's recovery and release played again and again in my mind.
Rounding the corner to the block where my father lived, I began to picture my father's reaction to my new friend. Bringing a filthy, diseased, winged rodent into his home seemed like a death-worthy trespass.
So, I stopped to contemplate this decision. Perhaps I decided to hide the bird in a safe place. The old aluminum fence post on the corner of the front lawn seemed like the perfect refuge.
I peered down the cylinder for a moment and pulled the injured bird from my t-shirt. I took a look around for any witnesses and dropped it in. Later that night, my dad and I were sitting on the porch with some of his friends. My stow-away began chirping frantically from the fence post. After a search for the source of this noise, they pin-pointed my hiding spot.
We spent nearly an hour shining a flash light into the post and trying to remove the bird with a fishing pole. We fished until the chirping finally stopped.
That was the last time I ever saw my father...
I was 15 and well into my drug-addled, alcohol-fueled rebellion phase. I was riding down 395 with my friend Jodi in her gigantic, baby blue station wagon. We stopped at the traffic light on Highland. I spotted a friend of mine in the Taco Time parking lot to my right. I said goodbye to Jodi and exited the car.
No more than a second after I closed the door, A Greyhound bus passed in the next lane. I was caught in the two foot space between a speeding bus running a red light and a big ass station wagon. My life didn't have a chance to flash before my eyes.
That was not the only near-death experience involving that station wagon. The following week Jodi, Adam and I were skipping a class. Upon our return to the campus, a can of gasoline spilled in the back. "Let me see if the fumes have dissipated," Adam said pulling a Bic lighter from his pocket. He flicked the lighter in the direction of the spill, turning the cab of the car into a chamber of hot, loud flames. We all managed to get out safely. That old station wagon however, didn't make it.
Some time later, I was walking. I rounded the corner from Highland on to 395, the same corner where I had nearly been hit. Once again a Greyhound bus drove by me. A bird dive-bombed directly in front of me and straight into the window of the bus. It bounced off of the window and landed at my feet, twitching. I stopped walking and watched. I took a brick from the 3 foot wall to my left. An onlooker stopped. We shared a quick "It's the right thing to do," kind of look and I lifted the brick over my head. With one fast, crushing blow it was dead.
The next day, I dropped out of high school and began recording my first album.
When I went off to college in the winter of 2004, I had another experience with a bird. My dorm room was on the 8th floor of the Cornelius in Seattle. The first night in my room, an old pigeon landed on my window sil and stayed there all night. When I woke up the next morning, the bird was gone. I opened the window and looked down. The pigeon was laying dead on the roof of the first floor.
Comments
Birds have been used for thousands of years to show symbolism, ranging across all religions and beliefs. Have you ever done any research as to which birds you saw at different times of your life? Depending on their meanings ..it would be interesting to see the correlation.