S.B.T.2

The songs of the birds were so loud outside the kitchen window, I had to stop and listen. Holding a cup of tea in my hands, I leaned in, closer to the window. The birds saw that I was subsisting with something so they relaxed. From a kitchen wth open windows where the smell of cooking chicken seeps out, you can’t blame them for being wary.

I moved closer, trying to time my steps smoothly so as not to startle them. They might just fly away suddenly at the slightest uncertain nuance. But then if you stand very still, they will come back. I kept the teacup close to my face and watched.

Some of them looked back at me, the same ones intermittently watching me, turning the head slightly and making direct eye contact. It was clear that they were not only aware, but curious and somewhat interested in seeing me. Three silhouettes were far away on the treetops in the front yard. They were calling and answering, and making various commentaries, their calls swept the distance like echoes, like yodeling. I have a “Backyard Habitat”. Two pairs of mallard ducks visit regularly, there is a wild wetlands area across the street. Cardinals and lots of cowbirds, sparrows, grackles, bluejays, downey woodpeckers and many redwing blackbirds come to eat every day. A yellow-shafted flicker comes for suet in the mid-morning and a big raven comes to get peanuts. And the mourning doves line up on the telephone wires. An occasional mother-of-pearl feathered pigeon joins them. At night, the raccoons, possums, skunks and feral cats come around. There have been a few spottings of coyote. And there are always seagulls soaring overhead.

Earlier that morning, at the feed store, a customer leaned open the creaky door, pointed at something outside, and turned, breathless and glittery-eyed, towards the checkout stand where I was putting my bags of seed up. ”What a beautiful bird!!” she almost wept. “What kind of bird is it?” The clerk walked out around the little wooden corral-like space where the long flat tables and cash registers were.

“Yes, that’s an oriole, a Baltimore Oriole.” she said.
“An Oriole?” I gasped, knowing how rare they are around here.
“Yes” she said, and pointed me in the direction. “Right there.”

The flicker of expectation (“...the gloriously orange and black colors! Yippee!... I can almost see them.....Ya Ya YESSSSS!”) and then, I look out and see that it is a redwinged blackbird.

A redwing is unmistakable. No doubt a dashing figure, lively and dramatically colored, beautiful in its minimal statement of red against black. And the aerodynamic curve of the design, like the Nike logo on its wings. Nike should make a sneaker called the “Redwing”.

I explained that the oriole’s color is in different places, with much less black. It’s not the right time for orioles either. Still she insisted it was an oriole and said that the yellow stripe under the red stripe made it an oriole and not a redwing. It’s not all red was her argument. Colloquial knowledge at its best. “The wider the yellow under the red stripe, the mark of youthful immaturity, you’re looking at a young bird, in its pre-prime,” I said. I was thinking about that experience when suddenly a call I’d never heard before rose out from the chattering.

It sounded like a human voice imitating a bird, if a bird could speak. It was coming from the deck where all the birds were gathering. It really sounded like the voice was saying “Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit” and then “HouseShit HouseShit HouseShit”. I stepped closer, but suddenly it was quiet. I peered out over the deck into the tangle of branches of the Rose of Sharon tree and then I saw the face. The face was greenish gold, twisted and crying.

“It’s her again,” I realized immediately, disgusted. With the dusting I’d done to bless the house and grounds, there had been some peace and quiet for a few days. Now it looked like she just wasn’t giving up. It took just an instant to know she was trying to get in through the circles and triangles and rectangles. Constantly moving, between the protrusions of branches that meet at different angles along the trunk, the spots where intersecting lines make negative holes in space. Places where energy can camouflage itself and retain its acuity.

But this time, she had no foreknowledge of the precautions I’d taken to arm myself in advance. Wisely, I’d expected some repurcussions since the moment I serendipitously found out what was going on. In this instance, there was nothing she could do, except futilely emote. And that’s why the “oh shit” and the pitiable crying. Wisdom Happens. The invisible wall had shocked her, and upset her. I was no more the easy target I’d always been, but the formidable opponent I’d become. I began to develop an ultrascopic vision that ultimately threw higher levels of danger in my direction. (other stories) If I was not able to remain infinitely vigilant, constantly alert and aware, I could be injured, perhaps even killed. Some currents just have a dark nature, and they try to cling like siphons on the auras of the unaware. They especially like to attach those who are peaceful by nature and humble. It’s like having a nice plump roasted pheasant with honeyed apricots. If in doubt, slap the floor.

However if a victim stumbles out of the stupor long enough to realize they’ve been robbed, awareness dawns, and the spirits get pissed off. It’s their hyper-mischief, and not our behavior, which has been characterized as “human nature” in the general consensus. Not a soul on earth, it seemed, hadn’t at some point in their lives believed the worst they could about themselves because of duplicity at its best. This one wasn’t giving up easily.

But I had learned some things, which I cannot tell here because of their secret nature, but with a specially engineered shield, I had gained the ability to contain my field and to deny access to any and all unwanted intrudors. My opponent was simply testing for any weak spots, redoubling her efforts, as could be expected. The faction had leeched onto me whilst unaware, so, even though they knew the temperature of the contest had changed, they just assumed there were still holes in the field. They had never known what a mistake it was to begin with. They hadn’t seen that I was born with Spartan blood in my veins. They didn’t do the research. A fatal mistake on their part and good luck for me. Their reactive behavior reflected the erroneous adage “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”. I didn’t believe in adages and thus, fueled their interest in me as a test subject.

Once when I met her face to face in the flesh, I asked why anyone would do such a thing, why would anyone want to steal from another? She looked me in the eye and said she didn’t know. Then she said that I was a good, kind, loyal, caring person. I felt my insides warm up, but I cut it as soon as I caught on to an old manipulative trick. They were good at covering. If you can never get a clear answer, it is one of the identifying points. But with the shield in place I was able to discern the reason, and it was quite shocking. The truth is that they have holes in their energy systems and yet they can create works above existing current. Characterized by mastery, empathic loss and lots of holes. A strange disorder, but a dangerous one. Once I became aware of the symptoms, I knew I had to oblute and libate regularly, at the slightest spike of temperature. Not that I can say what that means. But I often stop and wonder how it all began.