ENTER READER, STAGE LEFT
READER
(perusing blog)
Damn. No new photos. (mumble, mumble) Oh jeez, he's back on crane flies. What is it with this guy? Squirrels, sloths, crane flies ... it's been two weeks now and I don't even know if he has a girlfriend. Or tats. What the hell is a "big-ass conceptual leap"? This guy is so full of himself. Bored Whim. Where's that "Next Blog" link? Think I'll just --
EXIT READER, INTO ORCHESTRA PIT.
The Birds
On Friday two birds showed up in my house. They weren't sightseeing as a couple; in fact, they were about four hours apart, but both had trouble leaving. It wasn't the home-cooked meals and free cable (though one of them picked up enough spiderwebs on its feet to knit a pair of booties), it was just that they couldn't remember where they'd come in. Nor could they sort out the difference between an open window and a closed one. And of course they were terrified. They flitted madly, smacking their little birdbrained heads into walls and ceilings and flinging themselves against the closed windows, scant inches away from open ones.
And that is why I am committing this scene to bloggery. Picture if you will the guest room. There am I, standing at the door, darkly regarding the dark bird. He regards me back in a like fashion. The sparsely furnished room suggests a terrarium because, just outside, two overgrown oleanders obscure the vista with sun-dappled green leaves. No curtains mar the wide windows -- a plus from the avian perspective. On the other hand, it must be very confusing. "Here am I," thinks the bird, "and there is the branch. If I just fly hard enough I will get there. Ow! Let me try that again. Ow! I must be doing something wrong. Ow!"
I've cranked open the hinged parts of each window, but the featherweight continues to bang his head only against the immovable panes. By the time he'd managed to find a way out, he was so focused on his crazy fluttering and colliding that instead of catching his breath on a branch or lighting out for the wide open spaces, he continued to struggle against the pane -- even though he was already outside. The world at large welcomed him, but all he could see was the former obstacle under his nose. Eventually he turned his head and saw opportunity, and only then did he go.
Culture Vulture (again!)
Attended the final, run-closing performance of "As You Like It" at the Ahmanson this afternoon. That's the play that gave the world such deathless phrases as "All the world's a stage ...", "laid on with a trowel," and ... and ... memory fails me. (That's probably in there too.) Remind me never to try that again without rereading the play first. The woman behind me said she'd only allowed herself to buy the ticket after she'd finished rereading the play. Smartypants. My assorted comprehension issues notwithstanding, it was very well-staged. Reading the play just now I saw humor in lines I'd never otherwise have noticed on the page.
Leaving the theater, I passed the loading dock, where an enormously long truck was already receiving an engorgement of costumes and scenery.
Crane Flies Part Three
An especially active crane fly missing a foreleg is hobbling across my desk, avidly applying its proboscis to the glass. Maybe they don't starve in here after all. As much as I'm rooting for them, I was thinking the birds might have enjoyed a few, if they'd just been able to stop whacking their heads against the windows.
And I finally figured out why I'm so interested in these sad, gangly, doomed visitors.
Overlit Crane Fly
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