I don’t want any of you to know anything about me, and that will always be true. However.
The other night I dreamed I was in the kitchen of my home in the country with my small white puppy dog (none of these things exist outside of mall, errrr, dream world). I’m cutting onions and carrots and celery, making a la di da mirepoix for something, when I notice out of the corner of my eye a dollar bill on the ground outside the door. I stop cooking, run out, grab the dollar, and see a red feather next to it. A pretty, soft feather, red as blood. What kind of bird has plumage this vibrant and delicate?
I walk back into the kitchen, the puppy barking. Another feather outside the door. This time I step out more cautiously. Grossed out to the max, even. Many feathers mean a bird torn asunder. A dead bird, blood flowing, bones snapped in half, supine on the ground, is the very last thing I want to see before dinner.
Instead, a big, aggressive turkey is standing on my garden gate. The kind of big boy who can tear your eyes out with it’s nasty little beak. The American bird. A cornucopia bird. A bird of capitalism and money wishes. Staring right at me. Big nasty domestic national ass bird disrupting my damn dinner.
I go inside to get my little puppy and call for help. Then back outside. The turkey is now lying on its back in front of my door, this big fat nasty ass capitalist bird heaving, chest pumping, gasping for air. Blood stains the feathers of the wing red The American bird dies in my garden.
Dream kittens come out of the woods to pay their respects. My puppy circles the body. I throw my hands up and call on the allies to guide the bird’s soul into the light. It feels like animist Snow White, all of us little animals mourning the body of the beast. Return your form to the earth and may the heavens open up to reclaim their child. Big fat dumpy money bird. Right in my damn yard.
I woke up to reality. This is now real life. I wake up the next morning, grab my coffee, sit at my desk, and someone calls me. A call before noon is never a good thing. I answer the phone. My boss tells me I’m laid off. I have no reaction whatsoever. After I hang up, I say out loud, Oh my God, I can’t believe the fucking bird died. Then I say out loud, Thank you for warning me about the fritz of that fat fucking bird of industry..
Life is mysterious and splendid. I remind myself of this, especially in bad times. When I’m troubled or uncertain, I lean into the magic of existence and nature, teaming with mystery. Who knows what will ever happen? The only way is through. Onward. Braving strange times, opening up to something new, knowing there’s so much we can’t understand and that the mystery of the world will embrace us back if we embrace it.
I’m scared, but life will go on.
Thank you to whoever warned me about that big fat fucking cornucopia ass pilgrim ass mashed potato looking turkey dying. I hope the big guy rests in peace. Life goes on.
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