Two weeks ago, I returned from my strings group and found a dead bird on my balcony.
I had gone out to get my washing, and just next to the clothes rack, alongside the rack's simple shadow was a much larger shadow.
It didn't register in my brain for a few seconds - an actual bird with wings spread, dark (black?) against the white tile of the balcony. It was smaller than a pelican and larger than a seagull, not entirely evident what it actually was.
I heard someone screaming and realised it was me. I had picked up the broom and swept it off the side. Get it out! Was the only thought in my head. The second of contact was nauseating - the stiff bristles of he room against its soft lifeless body. It landed on the driveway below with a muted plop.
All of this happened in maybe five seconds, after which I felt awfully embarrassed about the screaming and the non elegant way I disposed of this poor bird.
The bird must be symbolic of something, I thought.
Life is not a Murakami novel, I repeated to myself every time I had the thought.
Nevertheless I read my favourite novel The Wind up bird chronicle yet again, enjoying the random but rich imagery.. meanwhile my friend looked up "black tropical birds" and identified it as a cormorant. So there it was, I had a black cormorant die on my balcony.
If life was a Murakami novel, it would have some symbolic meaning like some part of my life ended that day on the balcony. And perhaps it did.
A few nights ago, the black cormorant appeared in my dream. P was telling me about an elaborate ornate ceremonial knife that he purchased somewhere, which got confiscated by customs. He was furious that they wouldn't let him bring it in, citing all the clauses which it didn't fit under. I didn't really understand what he was saying but I listened anyway, whilst sitting on the balcony.
Near the gate to the apartment, a man was washing his car. Though I couldn't hear what he was singing (a pop tune of some kind), I knew instinctively that he was Thai. He soaped the car carefully using a large yellow sponge. The suds that fell on the ground he swept away with a broom. I watched him as he swept the suds a little at a time into the gutter - what an ineffective way that is! I thought.
The suds piled up more and more, until he was shovelling a pile, practically a wall of them. His broom struck something that made a silent sound - what was that? I squinted to see as he brushed around the object. It lay still, the soap brushing around it. Soon it was apparent that it was the black cormorant.. laying in the gutter covered in soap, being brushed around by the man singing whilst washing his car.
Then I woke up. But is it the end of the black cormorant?
I had gone out to get my washing, and just next to the clothes rack, alongside the rack's simple shadow was a much larger shadow.
It didn't register in my brain for a few seconds - an actual bird with wings spread, dark (black?) against the white tile of the balcony. It was smaller than a pelican and larger than a seagull, not entirely evident what it actually was.
I heard someone screaming and realised it was me. I had picked up the broom and swept it off the side. Get it out! Was the only thought in my head. The second of contact was nauseating - the stiff bristles of he room against its soft lifeless body. It landed on the driveway below with a muted plop.
All of this happened in maybe five seconds, after which I felt awfully embarrassed about the screaming and the non elegant way I disposed of this poor bird.
The bird must be symbolic of something, I thought.
Life is not a Murakami novel, I repeated to myself every time I had the thought.
Nevertheless I read my favourite novel The Wind up bird chronicle yet again, enjoying the random but rich imagery.. meanwhile my friend looked up "black tropical birds" and identified it as a cormorant. So there it was, I had a black cormorant die on my balcony.
If life was a Murakami novel, it would have some symbolic meaning like some part of my life ended that day on the balcony. And perhaps it did.
A few nights ago, the black cormorant appeared in my dream. P was telling me about an elaborate ornate ceremonial knife that he purchased somewhere, which got confiscated by customs. He was furious that they wouldn't let him bring it in, citing all the clauses which it didn't fit under. I didn't really understand what he was saying but I listened anyway, whilst sitting on the balcony.
Near the gate to the apartment, a man was washing his car. Though I couldn't hear what he was singing (a pop tune of some kind), I knew instinctively that he was Thai. He soaped the car carefully using a large yellow sponge. The suds that fell on the ground he swept away with a broom. I watched him as he swept the suds a little at a time into the gutter - what an ineffective way that is! I thought.
The suds piled up more and more, until he was shovelling a pile, practically a wall of them. His broom struck something that made a silent sound - what was that? I squinted to see as he brushed around the object. It lay still, the soap brushing around it. Soon it was apparent that it was the black cormorant.. laying in the gutter covered in soap, being brushed around by the man singing whilst washing his car.
Then I woke up. But is it the end of the black cormorant?
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