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Sunday, June 20, 2004
If perchance you were to wander by
Mirabile dictu, how the long awaited (not really, but you got to have a blurb that'll move product) conclusion to one bird, one fish (now brought to you in silverchair lower case) was ultimately brought to the page with rights to the movie pre-sold for half a mill.
ONE BIRD, ONE FISH
On a branch hanging above the edge of a river lived a bird. His nest was a mess of twigs strung together with the odd shoelace and piece of string. From up close you could make out stray patches of picnic basket that the bird had weaved through his nest. He had pecked these away from unattended baskets left by picnickers swimming in the river. It took time. A succession of methodical pecks starting from any frayed edge, and there was always fraying, would loose enough of the basket for him to bite down firmly and yank a chunk off. He would only ever vandalise their baskets. Their food he always left untouched. "What a slow bunch they are," he thought. They rarely noticed him let alone came running.
There were times he wished he had a bigger mouth or at least teeth. Working with a beak could be laborious but it was satisfying if not conventional work.
" A hole a day
One hole a day
A little hole they can take away. "
He would sing this tune daily as the picnickers and their cars drove off. Occasionally, little children would wander under his tree singing nursery rhymes or rude lyrics and he would sing his song to their tune. He liked this the most. It made for interesting harmonies.
One day as he sat gnawing on a piece of dry worm the bird noticed a fish swimming beneath his branch. The fish glided barely under the surface in slow, wide circles and finally stopped directly under him. " What a dim fish, " thought the bird, " you don't toy with this bird like that." He inched along his branch to get a better look but the fish remained unmoved. "Too much protein will deplete your glycogen levels." said the fish, " Why not try a piece of sticky bun from the bins ? You might be surprised what a difference it would make."
"I don't eat buns and i rarely take advice from fish," replied the bird emphatically, eyeing the bird intently now.
" Next some cat will be telling me what to eat. One more word and i'll have you," he thought. He was a cocky bird when he wanted to be. "Why don't you come down here and we can discuss your diet? " said the fish.
" I don't negotiate with fish," said the bird. He swooped downwards and hit the water with a clap. In the bubbles and the shimmering glass of the water he could make out the fish plunging towards the bottom of the river. The bird's momentum , stalled by the water, carried him ever slowing downwards and he saw the fish fade into the dark cooling deeps of the river. Thwarted, he struck upwards and spluttered as he broke the surface. He waded over to the river's edge to shake himself dry. " And I lost my piece of worm, too," he said.
The bird spent the following day, a Wednesday and Wednesdays were always quiet, thinking about the fish. " What a queer fish. And what a mouth on him," he thought. The rest of his thoughts remained an unarticulated blur that resonated in his walnut- sized brain . He was, after all, a simple and uncomplicated bird. He couldn't remember anything from the day before the fish had appeared. This was how it usually was. He was a bird driven by instinct and history, memory and learned behaviour were not his thing. They were like principles of flight expressed in some remote calculus. He was a bird. He flew. He pecked. He didn't need to know why or how.
The appearance of the fish was still in the bird's mind. Disturbingly so. He found it difficult to concentrate. Picking insects from his feathers became an ordeal. His eyes would focus on the river below when they should have been scanning his wings for bugs. He would lose the tune when practicing his song for the picknickers.
Unexpectedly, He let out a shrill twirp and then sat quietly on his branch feeling almost aware that there were things he should know but did not. After a while, he daydreamt of the fish circling and nibbling at whatever tiny creatures it was the fish nibbled at and he felt in this daydream he could give this tiny fish food a name. Then he snapped to, " I will not let myself be distracted by that fish," he resolved.
The extent of the bird's consciousness often never went beyond a faint recollection of his last meal. This was enough to ensure he kept a full belly and that was good enough. Other thoughts were being seeded in his head. Memories were lingering. The bird felt his head was not big enough. " This devilish fish is screwing with my head. Maybe I just need a worm and a good night's sleep." It was dark by now. The bird folded his wings under, closed his eyes and eventually fell asleep.
Over the following days the bird was optimistic. The fish did not appear and he occupied himself preening and even thinking about a mate. " It's almost Spring. I really should start getting out of the nest more. Maybe get a blue ribbon or something to jazz up the place. " It was while he was thinking about this that the fish swam by and gazed up, " You know, I have noticed. You don't even take the food from those picknickers ? That would be natural for a bird. What you're doing is wrong, unnatural. You do know there's a fundamental purity to doing something bad, don't you ? "
This was too much for the bird. He considered swooping down on the fish but remembered his previous attempt and simply turned his back. " See, there you go again. Any other bird would come for me. Would be overwhelmed by their primitive avian urges to peck my eyes out. But not you. You are a peculiar bird, aren't you, " and with this he swam off.
" He has a point, " reflected the bird. Then he began to feel odd. Like he was flying and the air was dry and brittle. Like he was flying and could only find his way back to his nest by following traffic and turning right and left at signposts. " No, " he yelled, " I will not put up with this. " Flustered, he spent the rest of the day, out of his tree, wandering about and pecking the warm soil for worms. He returned to the tree at dusk, hungry and without a single worm. " I know what i'll do. And that fish will never bother me again."
In the coming weeks the fish was absent. During these weeks the bird ate only the occasional worm and some moths he would pinch out of spiders' webs that were strung throughout the tree. He spent long hours flying about looking for strong winds that he would then spend long hours flying into. When he sat in his tree he would pick out the fastest of children playing ball and scan their moves about the picnic ground - triangulating their positions so he might dive along the shortest possible path to peck behind their ears. Sometimes he would draw blood. " That's right. I mean business," he would say, imagining the fish as he said it.
It had been near a month since he saw the fish and the bird was lean. When he groomed he could feel new strips of muscles beneath his feathers. The bird felt sharp. Felt like a bird. He would spend long periods daydreaming. During these daydreams, the bird felt like his head was turned inside out and as if he'd flown into a different world. His world became more than black and white and smoother than the tessellated reality he was accustomed to. Surfaces were smooth and continuous. And the colours - "So, that's what a rainbow looks like," he said, marvelling while he daydreamt of flying, through the rain, into a rainbow.
Early one morning, the bird sat on his branch with his eyes closed. He had just concluded his latest daydream where he'd been contemplating carrion through eyes the size of his head. And it had been all his.
He opened his eyes to the heavy fog of instinct and the fish swam by purposefully like a commuter. " Hey ! Stop," the bird shouted. " Can't today. Places to be. Fish to see." replied the fish. " No! Stop !" the bird repeated. The bird’s thoughts and motives, as if propelled by the eagerness in his voice, rippled through the still morning air.
The fish paused. ”How have you been feeling since we last spoke ?” he enquired. “I’ve been …” The bird did not conclude the sentence. The fish waited a polite period for him to finish. The bird remained silent. He had too much to say and still felt he had not learnt how to say it. His thoughts were like layers of strata without the concept of geologic time.
in a sensitive and enabling manner and sounding like he was the bird’s therapist, the fish said, ”You’ve been ?” but the bird remained silent. ”Arrested cognitive development,” the fish said knowingly. “Prolonged stress responses have been known to alter development in birds. Have you been stressed lately?”
The bird looked resignedly towards the fish and said, ”Why don’t you come a little closer to the shore. I’ll tell you what has been stressing me lately.”
The fish was curious at the prospect of the candid bird. “Alright, but I can’t stay,” and he swam over.
The bird began. “You’re a fish. I’m a bird. We have our own ways of seeing the world – essentially different ways.”
The bird stopped to reflect on the possibilities he had become aware of and their accompanying exigencies. "Why did you have to stop under my branch? ” the bird asked like a penitent. “Sometimes,” he continued, “when your bulbous eyes or your whiskers suggest something is near, you’re compelled to pursue and seize it. I’m not like that.”
“Barbels, actually. They’re called, barbels, not whiskers,” said the fish already tiring of the direction the bird was taking the conversation. “Engaging in transference can be valuable in only limited types of relationships, you know. So good for you. If it makes you happy. Now, I must go now but our paths will cross again.”
“ I’d really, and don’t take this personally, prefer if we didn’t cross paths anytime soon,” said the bird. The fish considered this statement briefly and replied “Again, withdrawing from difficult situations is symptomatic of arrested cognitive development. Stay aware of that.”
As he finished and went to swim off, the fish saw another tiny, practically embryonic fish swim by and said questioningly to the bird, “Survival of the fittest?” before ghosting around the tiny creature. “Who knows,” replied the bird and the fish enwrapped his tiny relative between his lips. Immediately upon closing his lips, the fish began thrashing and any more words he wanted to say to the bird were strangled by the lure and hook that were wedged in his mouth.
“Arrested cognitive development ? I don’t think so. “ said the bird then he looked down to the base of his tree where the lone fisherman, who he had been watching since before dawn, was quickly pulling in his line.
ONE BIRD, ONE FISH
On a branch hanging above the edge of a river lived a bird. His nest was a mess of twigs strung together with the odd shoelace and piece of string. From up close you could make out stray patches of picnic basket that the bird had weaved through his nest. He had pecked these away from unattended baskets left by picnickers swimming in the river. It took time. A succession of methodical pecks starting from any frayed edge, and there was always fraying, would loose enough of the basket for him to bite down firmly and yank a chunk off. He would only ever vandalise their baskets. Their food he always left untouched. "What a slow bunch they are," he thought. They rarely noticed him let alone came running.
There were times he wished he had a bigger mouth or at least teeth. Working with a beak could be laborious but it was satisfying if not conventional work.
" A hole a day
One hole a day
A little hole they can take away. "
He would sing this tune daily as the picnickers and their cars drove off. Occasionally, little children would wander under his tree singing nursery rhymes or rude lyrics and he would sing his song to their tune. He liked this the most. It made for interesting harmonies.
One day as he sat gnawing on a piece of dry worm the bird noticed a fish swimming beneath his branch. The fish glided barely under the surface in slow, wide circles and finally stopped directly under him. " What a dim fish, " thought the bird, " you don't toy with this bird like that." He inched along his branch to get a better look but the fish remained unmoved. "Too much protein will deplete your glycogen levels." said the fish, " Why not try a piece of sticky bun from the bins ? You might be surprised what a difference it would make."
"I don't eat buns and i rarely take advice from fish," replied the bird emphatically, eyeing the bird intently now.
" Next some cat will be telling me what to eat. One more word and i'll have you," he thought. He was a cocky bird when he wanted to be. "Why don't you come down here and we can discuss your diet? " said the fish.
" I don't negotiate with fish," said the bird. He swooped downwards and hit the water with a clap. In the bubbles and the shimmering glass of the water he could make out the fish plunging towards the bottom of the river. The bird's momentum , stalled by the water, carried him ever slowing downwards and he saw the fish fade into the dark cooling deeps of the river. Thwarted, he struck upwards and spluttered as he broke the surface. He waded over to the river's edge to shake himself dry. " And I lost my piece of worm, too," he said.
The bird spent the following day, a Wednesday and Wednesdays were always quiet, thinking about the fish. " What a queer fish. And what a mouth on him," he thought. The rest of his thoughts remained an unarticulated blur that resonated in his walnut- sized brain . He was, after all, a simple and uncomplicated bird. He couldn't remember anything from the day before the fish had appeared. This was how it usually was. He was a bird driven by instinct and history, memory and learned behaviour were not his thing. They were like principles of flight expressed in some remote calculus. He was a bird. He flew. He pecked. He didn't need to know why or how.
The appearance of the fish was still in the bird's mind. Disturbingly so. He found it difficult to concentrate. Picking insects from his feathers became an ordeal. His eyes would focus on the river below when they should have been scanning his wings for bugs. He would lose the tune when practicing his song for the picknickers.
Unexpectedly, He let out a shrill twirp and then sat quietly on his branch feeling almost aware that there were things he should know but did not. After a while, he daydreamt of the fish circling and nibbling at whatever tiny creatures it was the fish nibbled at and he felt in this daydream he could give this tiny fish food a name. Then he snapped to, " I will not let myself be distracted by that fish," he resolved.
The extent of the bird's consciousness often never went beyond a faint recollection of his last meal. This was enough to ensure he kept a full belly and that was good enough. Other thoughts were being seeded in his head. Memories were lingering. The bird felt his head was not big enough. " This devilish fish is screwing with my head. Maybe I just need a worm and a good night's sleep." It was dark by now. The bird folded his wings under, closed his eyes and eventually fell asleep.
Over the following days the bird was optimistic. The fish did not appear and he occupied himself preening and even thinking about a mate. " It's almost Spring. I really should start getting out of the nest more. Maybe get a blue ribbon or something to jazz up the place. " It was while he was thinking about this that the fish swam by and gazed up, " You know, I have noticed. You don't even take the food from those picknickers ? That would be natural for a bird. What you're doing is wrong, unnatural. You do know there's a fundamental purity to doing something bad, don't you ? "
This was too much for the bird. He considered swooping down on the fish but remembered his previous attempt and simply turned his back. " See, there you go again. Any other bird would come for me. Would be overwhelmed by their primitive avian urges to peck my eyes out. But not you. You are a peculiar bird, aren't you, " and with this he swam off.
" He has a point, " reflected the bird. Then he began to feel odd. Like he was flying and the air was dry and brittle. Like he was flying and could only find his way back to his nest by following traffic and turning right and left at signposts. " No, " he yelled, " I will not put up with this. " Flustered, he spent the rest of the day, out of his tree, wandering about and pecking the warm soil for worms. He returned to the tree at dusk, hungry and without a single worm. " I know what i'll do. And that fish will never bother me again."
In the coming weeks the fish was absent. During these weeks the bird ate only the occasional worm and some moths he would pinch out of spiders' webs that were strung throughout the tree. He spent long hours flying about looking for strong winds that he would then spend long hours flying into. When he sat in his tree he would pick out the fastest of children playing ball and scan their moves about the picnic ground - triangulating their positions so he might dive along the shortest possible path to peck behind their ears. Sometimes he would draw blood. " That's right. I mean business," he would say, imagining the fish as he said it.
It had been near a month since he saw the fish and the bird was lean. When he groomed he could feel new strips of muscles beneath his feathers. The bird felt sharp. Felt like a bird. He would spend long periods daydreaming. During these daydreams, the bird felt like his head was turned inside out and as if he'd flown into a different world. His world became more than black and white and smoother than the tessellated reality he was accustomed to. Surfaces were smooth and continuous. And the colours - "So, that's what a rainbow looks like," he said, marvelling while he daydreamt of flying, through the rain, into a rainbow.
Early one morning, the bird sat on his branch with his eyes closed. He had just concluded his latest daydream where he'd been contemplating carrion through eyes the size of his head. And it had been all his.
He opened his eyes to the heavy fog of instinct and the fish swam by purposefully like a commuter. " Hey ! Stop," the bird shouted. " Can't today. Places to be. Fish to see." replied the fish. " No! Stop !" the bird repeated. The bird’s thoughts and motives, as if propelled by the eagerness in his voice, rippled through the still morning air.
The fish paused. ”How have you been feeling since we last spoke ?” he enquired. “I’ve been …” The bird did not conclude the sentence. The fish waited a polite period for him to finish. The bird remained silent. He had too much to say and still felt he had not learnt how to say it. His thoughts were like layers of strata without the concept of geologic time.
in a sensitive and enabling manner and sounding like he was the bird’s therapist, the fish said, ”You’ve been ?” but the bird remained silent. ”Arrested cognitive development,” the fish said knowingly. “Prolonged stress responses have been known to alter development in birds. Have you been stressed lately?”
The bird looked resignedly towards the fish and said, ”Why don’t you come a little closer to the shore. I’ll tell you what has been stressing me lately.”
The fish was curious at the prospect of the candid bird. “Alright, but I can’t stay,” and he swam over.
The bird began. “You’re a fish. I’m a bird. We have our own ways of seeing the world – essentially different ways.”
The bird stopped to reflect on the possibilities he had become aware of and their accompanying exigencies. "Why did you have to stop under my branch? ” the bird asked like a penitent. “Sometimes,” he continued, “when your bulbous eyes or your whiskers suggest something is near, you’re compelled to pursue and seize it. I’m not like that.”
“Barbels, actually. They’re called, barbels, not whiskers,” said the fish already tiring of the direction the bird was taking the conversation. “Engaging in transference can be valuable in only limited types of relationships, you know. So good for you. If it makes you happy. Now, I must go now but our paths will cross again.”
“ I’d really, and don’t take this personally, prefer if we didn’t cross paths anytime soon,” said the bird. The fish considered this statement briefly and replied “Again, withdrawing from difficult situations is symptomatic of arrested cognitive development. Stay aware of that.”
As he finished and went to swim off, the fish saw another tiny, practically embryonic fish swim by and said questioningly to the bird, “Survival of the fittest?” before ghosting around the tiny creature. “Who knows,” replied the bird and the fish enwrapped his tiny relative between his lips. Immediately upon closing his lips, the fish began thrashing and any more words he wanted to say to the bird were strangled by the lure and hook that were wedged in his mouth.
“Arrested cognitive development ? I don’t think so. “ said the bird then he looked down to the base of his tree where the lone fisherman, who he had been watching since before dawn, was quickly pulling in his line.
